


nou ani atlantus

by Itar94



Series: the ghost and the raven [5]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: ATA Gene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, An attempt at explaining the Bond with Atlantis, Ancient Technology, Ancients, Ascension, Backstory, Bisexual Rodney, Canon-Typical Violence, Daily life on Atlantis, Developing Relationship, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Dubious Science, E-mail correspondence, Earth, Episode Remix, Episode: s02e09 Aurora, Episode: s02e13 Critical Mass, Genii, John and Rodney aren't really good at talking feelings, M/M, Marines, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Politics, Psychic Bond, SGC, Secret Relationship, Sentient Atlantis, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Telepathic Bond, Very very long-distance relationship, gentle emotional sex, how is John related to the Ancients?, plot got more complicated than expected, sort of headcanoning John on the demisexual spectrum, while other stuff happens too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 105,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6326971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of what came before, and how it affected what came after.<br/><i>(some tales are written in blood.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-04-19) Hello everybody! This is the actual sequel I think you've been asking for (see with all these WIPs how many ideas I'm trying to balance all at once...). Firstly, I'm just clarifying that this story will not make much sense unless you read [we are the raven and the ghost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6091879/chapters/13963222) before this one. I’m writing this in attempt to answer some questions (and cover eventual plotholes) and broaden some themes that I just couldn’t find the space and time to properly explore in the first fic. I'd also like to try continuing the narrative in "we are the raven...", so, several things will be happening all at once but I think it'll work out (fingers crossed). Secondly, I want to thank everybody who read, left kudos, and commented on "we are the raven..." - without your continuous support and encouragement I wouldn't have gotten this far writing this verse. Thank you!! Thirdly and finally: please enjoy!  
> (2016-04-01) I've now gone through and revised/updated all four previous fics in this verse and am starting with this one. I'm correcting grammatical and continuity errors; basically fixing the details. I'm altering spelling from British to American standard, since that's the kind of English most characters in the fic speaks. The plot remains the same. As I tick off each chapter, I'll add a note in the beginning of it to mark it as updated/revised.

# nou ani atlantus

 **i.**   **  
**

# prologue

 _the end of the beginning._  

* * *

 **Atlantis · Lantea · Pegasus**  
**ten thousand Terran years ago**

* * *

The raging fire of the Enemy has lasted for a hundred and five turns of the Sun, and as the years have dragged on, the War reaches no viable ending.

They call it the Long Darkness, the Ever-Night, for beneath the surface of the ocean they can no longer see the sun or the stars: not dusk nor dawn, only the endless rain of light from the Enemy ships, orbiting the planet in a tight cluster. Many Warships and colonies have been lost, thousands of lives; and the map has narrowed until there is only Lantea left, as sanctuary;

And in this Long Darkness, nineteen years before the Evacuation, Icarus is born.

* * *

His Anima Emerges within the hour; it takes many shapes through the years before they turn nineteen and then she settles in the shape of a  _volucera_ , sharply dark with a scatter of lightened greens upon the soft ridges of her back. And she has the most beautiful wings, a wide span which have never tasted true air because down here, there is no place to truly fly.

And once he is old enough to speak, he looks at her, and she at him, and they share a mind; and he names her after what he has never laid eyes on: the single star around which Lantea slowly orbits.

* * *

The City was sunk a century ago and Icarus grows up without ever recalling the freedom of sky or the sound of wind, only the cold dark of the waters outside the shield, constantly lit by the blasts of the Enemy weapons: streams of energy which would tear the City apart if not for the three  _potentiae_.

They had more than three, once upon a time; but they have launched the last of their Warships, each with a  _potentia_  to power the engines, in a final hope to free this galaxy from this scourge. His mother Ephesia argued long and well with the Council to see it happen.

The High Council said:  _We must leave. There is no other alternative._

They have already lost so many ships, so many lives, so many souls left drifting in the vacuum between stars:

For all life in this galaxy is bound to be wiped out, one day, and they must strive for survival before it is altogether too late. They had fled their First Home upon Celestis in their birth galaxy eons ago: they had survived the break with their sisters and brothers, those who abandoned reason and became the Ori; they are the Others, now, no longer purely one united people. And they had crossed the void, found another corner of the universe to carve out and make theirs and they had made life in their image and for a time, all was well. These are the stories with which he is born and raised; tales of heroic deeds, and scientific wealth, and memories of peace yet lingering.

_Our time is reaching its end._

* * *

When he is born, they are no longer building weapons. They are not making new  _potentiae,_  a process painstakingly slow; old projects abandoned, left to wither under the dying light. They do not have the power or time to continue.

Oh, some try, in defiance: Ianus, his mother’s brother, conducting experiments in secret somewhere, a lab where the Council cannot see. Of this Icarus is certain. There are whispers, and the City Sings _: There is a secret lab._ But She will not reveal where, as if sensing greater things are to come, and this is not the end.

Like her brother, Ephesia does not listen to the Council. That fierce and cunning defiance is something Icarus has inherited from her - if the trait was shared by his father also, he does not know; Ephesia does not speak of him, as he was destroyed by the Enemy before Icarus’ birth, and there are hours upon hours of holorecordings he has watched and listened to as a child, when he was not dashing through the hallways of the City chasing childhood memories. There were quiet moments, when his mother was tasked elsewhere, and he had only his Anima, Sau, for company; and they would watch the recordings, vivid but mute and unresponsive, and repeat all the names of the dead;

When he is born, it is a time of despair, and of Ascension unlike any: the majority of the City’s inhabitants are meditating and reaching out and, unless there are scientists or warriors otherwise occupied, they close their eyes and Merge to be One with their Animae, rising into Ascension: there, they will be untouchable. There, they will survive.

The order is given:  _The Evacuation must begin._

But Ephesia does not listen to the Council, and a hundred and fifteen volunteered to join her in a mission behind enemy lines with little hope of returning alive. Before they embark, his mother calls him down before the Astria Porta, and Icarus goes, his Anima with him. Sau is bright within, albeit her skin is dark and silent, and they rarely have the chance to stretch their wings and fly. The shield is in the way; always has been. If only they could tear it apart. He does not know what the sky looks like other than as a holographic projection, though he has dreamed of it often enough. The Archives account many tales, and he had savoured each one as a child, like stumbling across a desert planet in frantic search for water: eagerly lapping it all up.

And in their sleep, he and Sau listen as the City sings.

* * *

He has tried insisting to have his mother allow him aboard the Last Ships. If nothing else, he would then travel the universe, truly, and become a pilot and a warrior; join in the last of battles, die heroically as one of them truly; but they do not allow it. He is too young, they say. Oh, he knows there is much more. They may be afraid of him, because at night the City whispers to him, one of Those Who Listen. Before the Wars broke out and drowned them, there were thousands like him, and all the Cities Sang and there was  **peace**.

Now, he is the only one. Ever since his older brother Iaphyx was claimed by death; the horror of a Wraith’s cold hand as the Warship had been overtaken and boarded and brought to ruin. He is the only one remaining. He is to preserve, and be preserved: a memory.

The Aurora is waiting around another star, hidden out of sight from the Enemy: at one of the few outposts left whole, though that will not last either. The  _Astria Porta_  begins to turn, gently.

His mother and her Anima, Daedalus, meet him on the grand staircase, where the crew is gathered to board the Warship one by one, and Ephesia says: “Icarus, my child, my beloved son. If I do not return, promise me to go to Terra:  **survive**. Promise me.”

And he answers – he loves his mother, loyally and eternally: “I will. I promise.”

And she smiles, sweetly, sadly, and does not weep, and nor does he, even as the event horizon begins to blaze brilliantly blue and she whispers: “ _Aveo_.”

Ephesia steps through the Porta and aboard the Aurora; and Icarus does not see his mother’s face again, or hear her voice, or see the shadow of her Anima, oh the sweet Daedalus, fraught with weariness and war and wisdom of an age surpassing that of Ephesia’s physical body.

* * *

The Aurora disappears into hyperspace.

They do not hear from them again.

* * *

In the last hours of the Final Siege, the orders are given:  _Hope will not_ return.

Negotiation is futile. The last remnants of their legacy is gathered, and voices hushed the _Porta_ is activated. A final path: the road away from home. They will go, and leave the City to slumber until the days are beyond counting and the Enemy have returned to sleep. On Terra, they may find peace: on Terra, they may find time to build a weapon, a solution.

The City is weeping; Icarus and Sau can all hear Her, the Song silencing into a murmur, a wail of mourning. This time, which long has been feared, has come.

The Aurora has not returned. It will not return. They lost contact with the Warship Tria and her Captain fifteen days ago, and, in the atmosphere high above Atlantis, the Lachesis has just been destroyed.

The Council says:  _It is too late. It is time to go._

Icarus, furious and fearful, and yet wholly comprehending of the situation – his mother did not raise him to be a fool – tries to argue. Buy for time. A hundred more hours, a hundred more days. For they have withstood a hundred and five years. They can endure.

No. They need the power of the  _potentiae_  to reach Avalon. If they wait any longer, that power will be lost forever.

As he screams and cries and tries to soothe the ache by meditating, Sau says: “We made a promise.”

To survive. Yes. And survive – Icarus is planning on surviving, for ever and ever and ever if he can – the Aurora and its crew may be lost, but Atlantis is yet singing:

If they go, who will be left to hear Her voice?

And he turns to Sau and says: “We must find Ianus before he departs; we will not leave Atlantis to die.”

* * *

 _This is the place of our Legacy.  
_ _This is the Last City, and it will hold until the Unending of the World._

* * *

The secrets of Atlantis are theirs to hold and She lights the path, now, to the hidden corners, away from sensor range, where his uncle harbors a secret lab: one of many, spread across this galaxy and the next. This one is his most important, though, a place none of his assistants has ever seen, no one else ever visited. Icarus remembers what his mother used to say: her wayward brother, never listening to the Council, off to study the most peculiar things – but that same defiant streak lived in her; it lives in Icarus, too.

But the lab is not emptied. There is a woman there – Icarus recalls her, briefly, from afar: the woman from Terra.

Elizabeth, she is named, as if there was a Lantean namesake; there is one Elizabeta who Icarus has already known, once. The Enemy had destroyed her and her crew with the Lachesis. This one is very much alive, and she and two more Terrans had fallen into the ocean in a broken  _portam nava,_ one which Ianus had modified and left behind in the City - left behind for the future to find. The woman had survived, alone, the two companions merely broken bodies; and Ianus brought her before the Council bearing the most amazing story: a future time-traveller, Elizabeth and her expedition will find the City submerged in slumber ten thousand Terran years from this day.

It is a glimmer of hope, and also of immense grief. It means, ultimately, they are not buying time for themselves: it means they will not return a decade, a hundred years from now with a weapon to wipe out the Enemy once and for all.

At least, they know the Enemy will not reach Avalon, because the woman had asked about the Enemy, the Wraith, unknowing as if she had never heard their name.

Icarus had not been allowed to hear her story in the Council chamber: he is yet too young to be allowed inside there. He will never be old enough. The Council is disassembling at its roots, along with everything and everyone else. But now she is waiting inside the lab, alongside Ianus, who is standing before a console giving instruction.

He and Sau enter, unannounced, and Ianus greets them, unsurprised. Ianus’ Anima is thrilled; the Anima of the woman betrays fear, anxiousness, grief, an echoing restless weariness, an exhaustion wrought by the gap of time from her home to Atlantis. Her two companions had not been salvaged: their bodies remain buried beneath the waves, and there they shall fade, become forgotten. Perhaps, mercilessly, it is just as well; if they are anything like this woman, they would find the City of Atlantis, right now, unfitting and strange, and they would never truly be at peace evacuating to Terra with them. No, this time is not theirs. They do not belong here.

“I am uploading instructions on how to put the City to sleep,” Ianus is telling her. “You will be able to access it from any terminal after we leave.”

Then she is not evacuating with them, after all, despite the orders of the Council. A gift refused. Despite everything, Icarus smiles: the first smile for days, months, years. (They have not taught him to smile - they taught him the sciences, and the art of war, and meditation. Joy is for humans.)

If not for this sacrifice, the City will be torn asunder the moment the future expedition finds it, claimed by the ocean long before the Enemy even realizes the Descendants have returned.

The woman nods and murmurs. A plan hatched. Icarus asks what can be done to further aid it.

“We will go to the Core and see to the  _potentiae_ ,” Ianus says. Turns to the woman. “What did you say you called them?”

“ZPMs,” she says, a word so utterly foreign: “Zero Point Modules.”

“Yes. Yes! Of course! Come, I will show you. To lengthen the City’s lifespan, the  _potentiae_  – the Zero Point Modules,” Ianus corrects, easily taking new knowledge to good use, adapting his tongue for her to understand: “they must be used in sequence; I will adjust the stasis chamber to wake you once every three and a half thousand Terran years so that you can rotate them.”

“Then this is your plan?” Icarus asks. He and Sau have not been properly introduced, and the woman and her Anima, a most curious creature with red fur and clear eyes, are watching them very closely. If forced to put an expression to it, Icarus would say the woman is looking at a ghost.

“Yes. Icarus, you should go with the others, before the Council notices your absence and suspects.”

“We have a few more hours,” he says, mournfully: once they leave, they will not return, not within his lifetime, or his children’s lifetimes – he and most of his people will fall into oblivion and myth. One day their stories will be unearthed and revered, but their future is no more.

Descendants.

[we will remember] Atlantis Sings: a promise. Every sweet word is becoming an oath.

But his uncle shakes his head. “Go.”

“I cannot, not yet.”

First there is something he and Sau must do.

“Very well,” Ianus sighs, “but I will be waiting for you before the _Porta_.”

Waiting, as his mother was waiting before the Aurora disappeared. Waiting, as they all are, for the End.

* * *

In the lonely echo after Ianus and the Terran woman have gone to the stasis chamber, Icarus finishes the last adjustment of the crystal panel of the console. In this device he is storing the last memories. The holorecording can only be accessed by another with the blood of his people; because the Terran woman, Elizabeth, had said to the Council that there are Descendants among her people, Names Who Shall Be, and they will carry the key to Lantean technology.

There had been one, she had murmured, aboard the ship upon which she had travelled through time. She had woken, confused and dazed, and asked names; “Ionn Sheppard, is he here?” she had cried out, and: “Doctor Zelenka? The Major? Where are they? Are they alive?” – and she had not wept upon receiving the news of their deaths, but almost, perhaps in too much shock of the whole ordeal to be anything but utterly calm on the exterior.

Ionn is a Lantean name.

The Descendants will live and through them, Icarus is going to make sure, Atlantis will  **survive**.

 _Do not worry,_  he sends Her a message:  _You will not be alone._

* * *

And in the final hour, the City answers:  
[make it a promise]

* * *

_ten thousand years will be a long time to be alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Latin/Ancient to English translations :**  
>  **Anima** Daemon (literally meaning “soul”) pl. **Animae**  
>  **Astria Porta** Stargate (also called simply **Porta** )  
>  **Avalon** the Milky Way  
>  **aveo** Farewell/goodbye  
>  **Celestis** is the home planet of the Alterans (who later split into two factions, the Ancients/Anquietas, and the Ori)  
>  **Nou ani Atlantus** We are Atlantis  
>  **Pegasos** the Pegasus galaxy  
>  **portam nava** Gateship (i.e. Puddlejumper) pl. **portam navae**  
>  **potentia** Zero Point Module, ZPM, pl. **potentiae**  
>  **Terra** Earth


	2. landmark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the air tastes differently here. not bad, necessarily. just different._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**ii.**   **  
**

# landmark

 _the air tastes different here. not bad, necessarily. just different._

* * *

**Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**  
**2005 (Terran time) · 357 days since the Expedition’s arrival ·** **14 days after the Uprising**

* * *

It’s a sunny afternoon. They haven’t been on this planet long enough to feel all of its shifts in seasons, but as of late some colder winds have been drifting down from the northeast, carried by the currents of the widespread sea, and it might be approaching winter.

After the chaotic time of settling in – of fighting not just the Wraith during the brief siege, but themselves while in hyperspace, shooting nearly blinding, not knowing who the real enemy was – the last couple of weeks have been a welcome respite. Sorting out the mess had taken longer than anyone on base has been comfortable with. Threats had been uttered; orders had been shouted through the open Stargate, from General Landry to the rest of them. Eventually, a compromise had been reached.

Atlantis isn’t a colony, but almost.

It doesn’t feel right to have Elizabeth, Rodney, and Carson on the wrong side - stuck on Earth for an undetermined period of time. Since he cannot leave himself (and that is both a blessing and a curse) Ford and Bates had offered to take his place, or speak for him and the military contingent. John is pretty sure they’ll come to regret that decision, as warm-hearted as it had been made. He may not have met this IOA personally, but from what he’s heard thus far it’s not the greatest fun to be grilled by them. And John is not completely comfortable with his new – albeit thankfully temporary – position as head of the whole expedition. This is Elizabeth’s job. Plus, oh, the  _paperwork._ There’s a reason he’s always preferred to partake in the action. This – the endless juggling of paper weights – is tenuous, tedious, and frankly gives him a headache just thinking about it.

It’s been two weeks now, Terran time. Two weeks since they left, and a few more days since they fooled the Wraith into thinking Atlantis was destroyed by self-destruct. The Wraith may think them dead and gone, and they want to keep it that way, but they have allies out there with whom they need to re-establish contact. Also, teams have been tasked to subtly spread the rumor that Atlantis is gone – that they were attacked and besieged (which is true), and forced to flee (also true) to another planet. The fact that they flew the City itself across the stars to what is now known as New Lantea – well, it’s just a detail. As far as their allies are concerned, Atlantis was brought to ruin, unsalvageable, and they are now living on M99-108, the Alpha Site. To be further convincing, now that they’ve received some extra supplies and munitions with the Daedalus, they’ve set up a more permanent camp there. John has some ideas about the uses of the Alpha Site as a training site. Ranges and terrain endurance exercises and Jumper 101s.

If all goes well, with the talks on Earth, the expedition might be expanded. That’s what Elizabeth hopes, at least; more personnel, more resources. There is still so much to explore in Pegasus, new places, new people. And they need all they can get to fight the Wraith.

They are all adamant on that: they will not abandon Pegasus to be destroyed by the Wraith. If it so takes years and a substantial war-effort, John is certain that the majority of the original expedition members are supportive of that sentiment.

This year has shaped a lot of people.

Still, the hardships they’ve faced have left scars. Once the announcement was made of the Daedalus taking off, six civilians and two marines have requested reassignment, and been granted it. It’s disappointing to see them go, but no one thinks of stopping them. This kind of life is not for everybody and unlike the native inhabitants of Pegasus, they have a choice – Terra is a safe place, relatively anyway. They can go back to a life there of ordinary, Tau’ri things, driving cars and pondering taxes.

John is sitting in the office which does not feel like his at all, as if he’s the intruder, waiting for the comms to check out. It’s all carefully encrypted for subspace, just in case someone unwanted was to pass by and try to listen in. They could use the Gate directly, they know, but even with three  _potentiae_  the loss of power when dialing Terra would be substantial. This may take a bit longer to set up, but with the Daedalus in motion, they can be in range of the Milky Way on this frequency. Chuck, in the Control room, makes a few more adjustments, and Dr Novak aboard the Tau’ri warship does the same. 

The laptop image flickers online. John doesn’t stand up to salute, and Caldwell doesn’t blink in annoyance. He kind of likes this guy, he thinks; he’s pragmatic and sensible enough, and he’d done the right thing by listening to Weir during the aftermath of the Uprising.

“Colonel.”

_“Major.”_

“How’s flight?”

 _“Going well,”_  Caldwell says. A hint of a wry grin.  _“I think we would be a bit more grateful if you chose a planet closer to the Milky Way. ETA is days longer than it was before.”_

“Sorry about that. You know, beggars can’t be choosers. Or pickers. Can never remember how that goes.”

They exchange blank pleasantries while the techs set up a connection to Terra, where under Cheyenne Mountain Dr Weir and General Landry are waiting for a sitrep. Not that there’s a lot to say. Life in Atlantis has been blessedly calm since they landed; no unexpected surprises. Just the usual movements - new planet, new climate. The City is continually being checked for battle-damage, though the shield had been online during the Siege, and the Wraith never scored any hits. Just in case. Plus there are still some areas that inaccessible due to flooding, all those months ago, when the storm hit and the Genii tried to take the City by force.

* * *

Eventually, the clear picture of Colonel Caldwell is replaced with a much grainier one. A grey-tinted room, a conference table. Elizabeth is there, clad strictly and back ramrod straight, her Dæmon Simon barely visible, curled next to her, and for the moment they appear to be alone. Her poise relaxes somewhat, and her voice sounds distant. 

_“John, it’s good to see you.”_

“Likewise, doc. How’s it going?”

 _“Well, talks are proceeding faster than anticipated,”_  Elizabeth says.  _“O’Neill is being sympathetic to our cause, though I cannot say as much for Mr Woolsey.”_

O’Neill has had enough personal stints with command and grey areas in his file that if not for his and his team’s heroic actions saving the Earth more than once, he would definitely not be a General. John can’t think of any other organization than the SGC and, lately, Homeworld Security that could handle a guy like that. Then again, the SGC is a kind of special place.

“Hey, I thought Rodney was going to be here?”

_“He was, but then he was called to assist Dr Lee. Apparently SGA-12 had found something interesting during their last mission and they needed an expert on Ancient technology on hand.”_

“Any excuse to get out of those talks, I suppose.”

Elizabeth chuckles.  _“I almost wish I could do the same.”_

The door behind her opens, creaking slightly, and General O’Neill saunters in, a portfolio under his arm, a cup of coffee in his hand, a donut in the other, and a rather morose expression on his face. Unconsciously, John sits a little straighter, and salutes. He might not care much for General Landry, or the IOA, but O’Neill is a guy he’s got to admire, not just for what he’s done for the SGC and Terra as a whole, but also for Atlantis by taking their side in this conflict. He’s read his file, as much as he’s had access too, and knows he too has had issues with orders and the brass – a bit of a wild card – so John can relate. Though he can’t quite understand how the General can cope with flying desk in Washington.

_“Ah. Major, Dr Weir. Starting early, I see.”_

Elizabeth smiles pleasantly. “I’d hoped to catch up on a bit of unofficial matters before the cavalry arrives.”

 _"Oh, but the IOA’s making everything its business, and, so, I’m here.”_  Sitting down, O’Neill rolls a shoulder, tiredly.  _“Have to make sure you’re not planning on taking over Atlantis for some evil plans or whatever.”_

Yeah, John cannot see  _how_  O’Neill works in Homeworld Security. He’s very frank, at best. Politicians don’t tend to like that. And leaving SG-1 behind? The Gate itself?

_“Well, go on. How’s the waters of your brand new planet?”_

“All right, sir,” John says. A bit stiffly, unsure of how to report to this guy. There’s a lot of baggage, with those medals on his chest, and still - a bit of a wild card. “Haven’t had the chance yet to bring out the board and test them.”

 _[Oh, we should really have Rodney bring one back for us],_  Shy points out. _[A proper one.]_ The science departments could probably cook something up, but nothing beats the real thing.

O’Neill’s frown breaks a little, to his relief.  _“At least you_   **have**   _waters. We’re just stuck with the underground bunker.”_

 _“Extremely inadequate bunker,”_  comes a mutter, and there’s Rodney: the first time they see him, live and real and in color, for two weeks, and something in John’s chest swells and contracts all at once. If O’Neill’s expression was morose, Rodney’s is even worse. The kind of dark annoyance which John isn’t completely unfamiliar with. This one means either something’s badly broken, or someone’s messed up, and if this was in Atlantis someone would be getting yelled at soon enough, brought to the point of tears. People in the City are fazed to that kind of thing, by now, but in the year they’ve been gone the SGC has probably forgotten just what a stubborn pain in the ass Rodney McKay can be. 

 _“Complaining about what the millions, if not billions, of dollars are getting you?”_  O’Neill says, frown returning as Meredith, carelessly, leaps from Rodney’s arms onto the table in front of the chair where her human takes seat. Rodney’s stabbing with a finger at a PDA, and doesn’t answer the General directly. Instead he fiddles with the datapad for a few seconds, until there’s a loud bleep, and then he sets it down and looks at the laptop rigged at the end of the table.

 _“_   _Oh, hi. And yes, inadequate. Think you would be able to hire people other than idiots to do your science. Americans. Dr Lee needs to be demoted and sent to someplace remote – like Siberia. How do you people get anything done around here –”_

John hides a chuckle by pretending to cough behind his hand. Even through the encrypted transmission being sent through millions of lightyears, he can sense Meredith’s eyes staring right at him and Shy through the camera; he knows those eyes, too, and right now they’re full of fond exasperation, and through agreement with her human. Whatever Ancient artefact Rodney had been pulled away to look at, it was a huge let-down. 

He wishes he could feel their Bond, not just imagine it. It doesn’t hurt, this separation, not physically anyway. But it might be taking its toll on all of them.

_“– and SG-12, they are utterly incompetent, how could they possibly think it was an Ancient artefact?”_

_“Rodney,”_  Elizabeth says, but not harshly.

_“A big waste of time!”_

_“Yes, well.”_ She clears her throat, and John grins; “McKay, I thought you wanted to avoid the IOA as much as possible.”

_“True, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have better things to do that poke at crystals which aren’t Ancient and I wonder why Carter didn’t see that, for that matter; I mean she is meant to be clever -”_

One thing John is certain of: do not even imply to insult a member of a Gate-team, whether it’s SG or AR. That sort of rule is probably universal; he might poke fun at McKay, and he at him, but that’s in-team. And here Rodney is implying things about the competence of Colonel Carter of SG-1, right in front of her former teammate. Even if he was there in person, John isn’t sure if he could do anything to stop bodily harm from occurring.

Before O’Neill and Rodney can be at each other’s throats, though, the door opens again and the mood turns cold and severe. General Landry, followed by a rapidly balding man in dark suit and tie, Dæmon as gray as they come. Mr Woolsey of the IOA, John presumes. 

_[Here we go. You know, we could always fake a disruption in power or something. Could tell Chuck to cause a minor disturbance …]_

It sounds tempting enough. But it would only take them a couple of hours, at most, to figure the disturbance was deliberately faked, and then they’d find ever-more reason to loathe him, and call him in for an interrogation. Yeah. Not that tempting anymore.

_We can handle this._

He’s faced a Wraith Queen; he’s defended Atlantis against the Genii; he’s seen twelve Hive ships swarming the skies, and flown the City away – a video conference with the brass is nothing compared to that, isn’t it?

(And if he sits there nodding along and hoping for a sudden eruption of activity, a sudden incoming wormhole, whatever, no one has to know.)

* * *

At lunch, John retreats to a balcony to enjoy the sunlight, the fresh chill of the wind on his face. The air tastes different here. Not bad, necessarily. Just different.

A tray of food is spread out on the table before him, untouched: all his focus is with his Dæmon, a Raven flying high above, exploring the still so new view of the planet they have started calling home. Home is where Atlantis is. Leaning back, eyes closed, not truly within his body but trailing the Dæmon Bond, John doesn’t first notice when someone joins him by the table.

This is the first time they’ve been able to fly since being injured, and Dr Janet Mallory – who has stepped up in Carson’s place while the Scot is stuck at the SGC – has finally cleared them. John has been anxiously waiting for days.

After a few minutes, though, he becomes aware of the trickling sensation of someone looking at him, and he withdraws reluctantly. Shy, sensing the movement, circles back around from one of the towers, and lands on the railing, to watch just in case – a protective reflex. Opening his eyes, John finds Teyla sitting across from him. She’s smiling slightly in that way which he has learned to read as fondly relaxed. No warning bells go off. He relaxes.

“Hey,” he says, as she takes seat, putting down her own tray of food. A lot of it is desserts. For some reason, while the Daedalus had forgone to bring a lot of necessities, they had thought to bring chocolate and ice-cream, of all things. Admittedly it is a boost of morale. Luxuries which they haven’t had access to for months.

A shadow passes overhead. “I see Dr Mallory has cleared you for flight.”

“About time, too.”

"It is good to see you well again."

She munches on a few grapes. The thing is, they don’t need to small talk. They’re a team – even if AR-1 right now is fractured, split in two in a way it should never be – and they know each other, feel at ease in a way that John doesn’t with anybody else of the expedition, even though people are loyal and protective of each other. 

They still haven’t returned to the daily routines, not wholly anyway. No Gate teams are on duty, including AR-1: they’re grounded until further notice. The IOA and the SGC are generally making nuisances of themselves – well, perhaps not General O’Neill, who has been called back from his office at the Pentagon to partake in the discussions. 

When news reached them of the Atlantis Uprising, and of John’s outright refusal to step through the Stargate to Terra, things got … heated. _Interesting_ might be another good word for it. Little by little, the truth had slipped out. Rodney’s technobabble had partly helped, and partly annoyed everybody. He had, however, managed to convince O’Neill of the seriousness of the reasons for John’s disobedience.

He can’t go to Terra: if he leaves Pegasus, he might not survive. It’s a theory based on what (admittedly little) they know about his Bond with the Ancient Cityship, and it’s a theory they don’t want to put to the test. Finally the IOA are starting to see it, too. John has a feeling the IOA doesn’t like him very much, but it’s mutual. It’s their fault, and the SGC’s fault, that his team has been broken up, however temporarily, and they’re stuck in a sort of limbo now of debate and a tangle of politics which John really doesn’t want to deal with.

They’re still onto the case with Colonel Everett. The man is being put on trial for trying to shoot – possibly kill – John’s Dæmon and by extension John himself, in an act of unjustified violence. His decision to claim the City killed Lieutenant Thompson and injured several other marines, and put the whole City in jeopardy. John prefers not to dwell on it, but since it’d been caught by security cameras at least he didn’t have to retell the event too explicitly to prove it was real.

Now he tries to push all those thoughts and concerns aside, just for a moment. He – as are they all – is constantly unwillingly reminded by the recent events: senior staff not present, routines changed; new planet’s new views to check out. And on order of the SGC, since Caldwell had to go to Terra and report in person, someone from the Daedalus had been left in the City - volunteered, or maybe bribed with a ridiculous pay rise for a reassignment and extension.  _Minders,_  John privately calls them – Major Lorne and his Dæmon. Here to make sure the Lanteans don’t try to stir a revolution. The guy isn’t that intrusive, but it’s just strange to have a foreign face walking around the City, trying to blend in and not really making it. Maybe the Major is an all right guy, but right now, he is unwelcome, and people are very aware of it. Major Lorne is probably aware of it, too.

Shy takes off again. Circles the balcony, upward, then outward for the nearest Pier. Testing the currents of the wind. 

John breathes.

Normality cannot return soon enough.

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-10-07 00:22 GTM-7 (25:02 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Databurst 03
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “… Hi there. I figure you’ll be able to crack the encryption and find this file in the email. Let’s call it the unofficial sitrep, yeah.
> 
> How’s Terra? I guess it might kind of suck. Anyway, got to tell you, flying desk is really not a favorite pastime of mine. Major Lorne – that guy from the Daedalus that Caldwell left behind to keep an eye on us Lanteans – is still a bit, y’know, odd to have around, though he’s hardly a newbie, and he seems to have a penchant for paperwork ‘cause he isn’t complaining about it when I sort of push it on him. Can’t help it, really. I mean, it’s been only a couple of weeks, but, jeez, what I wouldn’t do for a proper offworld mission to get out of that damned chair. Weir’s office has got a nice enough view, I suppose – can see all these teams going in and out – but, yeah,  
>  not for me.
> 
> Corporal MacGrimmon seems to be handling acting Head of Security well enough. Personally, I’d rather have him that Major Lorne as XO at this point, since I don’t  _know_  what makes the guy tick, but I guess the SGC doesn’t trust me enough for that. Who knows, maybe they fear another Uprising, or maybe just the paperwork it’d cause, because, really, I’m assuming you’ve got a minor cascade of catastrophic failure over there because of this, and General Landry didn’t sound none too pleased in that radio burst…
> 
> Anyway. Most of that’s in the files in the databurst. We’ve got a couple of teams out there, re-establishing the fact that we’re not dead but Atlantis has been ‘destroyed’. Still need those not-potatoes.
> 
> Right, so.
> 
> Wow. Shit, this got awkward fast … and I’m basically talking with a wall. I guess it might be easier if I could actually talk to your face, but, well, better than nothing. Plus these video updates were  _your_  idea, I might add, and I’m wondering if SGC’s censure might poke too hard at this email and find this video, so I don’t want to go off derailing, I don’t know, listing insults about people I hate or, y’know. That kind of thing, and I’m not really in the mood to punch out.
> 
> Uhm, otherwise, all’s fine. Mostly. Weird not to be going on missions, to not have the team here – closest thing I can do is keep sparring with Teyla. And you’ll probably remark something about that like the risks of breaking my nose or something, but, hey, better that than breaking something else out of pure boredom. AR-2 is out there doing what  _we’re_  meant to do.
> 
> Don’t think it’ll be normal until you get back here, and the team’s back on track, and we’re out there on missions again. Though Zelenka seems happy enough that you’re not yelling the whole department to tears and stealing all the coffee. Which, by the way?, you’ve been holding out! Hogging a stash of the best stuff for  _months_ , substituting those not-coffee-beans from MR3-whatever for real ones, that’s  _not fair_. The guys over at the Citadel found out ‘bout that yesterday and let me tell you: shit. hitting. fan. So, sorry buddy, but that stash is gone. Entirely. Should’ve seen the look on Major Lorne’s face when  _that_  went down! – apparently the tours he’s done for the SGC don’t prepare a guy enough for Atlantis. Or maybe just the City’s scientists. Zelenka and Miko was ready to take on all the marines single-handedly to defend that coffee. (I’m serious – Atlantis was kind enough to get surveillance online just to take pictures.) Oh, I managed to get my hand some of it, though; DeSalle gladly traded it for some of those muffins that came with the Daedalus.
> 
> Makes me wonder, if they brought all that food and even ice-cream, why didn’t they bring any decent turkey? Seriously. There was a whole load of other things, but a lack of coffee and no turkey. If the thought of paperwork didn’t make my spine crawl I might almost write a complaint to Caldwell about that. And proper beer, though the Athosian brew is good enough. Huh - the only Terran stuff I miss is foodstuffs. Tells a lot, I suppose.
> 
> Tell you what, if you manage to bring some back to the City when you return –”
> 
> [radio crackles:  _Major Sheppard, please report to the Control room. We’ve got Gate activation._ ]
> 
> “Hang on.”
> 
> [into radio:  _This is Sheppard, what’s the situation?_ ]
> 
> [technician responds:  _It’s AR-2, back from M31-927. Sounds like they’ve found something._ ] 
> 
> [into radio:  _All right, be right there._ ] [waves at camera]
> 
> “Ah, nevermind, it can wait. Got to be off.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

“Looks like the database entry was right, sir,” Lieutenant Olsen reports. “There's definitely something there.”

They had brought a small camera, new standard issue since the supply drop from Earth, and now Chuck pulls it up on one of the screens. Blackness flickers into light, and then they’re looking at a darkened room: spacious, high ceiling, a sleek clean design. Wide windows that once had been colorful and vibrant now broken and shattered. The far wall appears partially collapsed, and there is a heavy layer of dust, but a slow sweep reveals most of the room seems intact. Lights are off, the consoles dead, but John would recognize that style of architecture anywhere.

That’s Ancient, all right.

“How large is the facility?”

“Well, difficult to estimate, because there was a lot of damage to some sections that had been overgrown, and it looks like it’s partly underground - this was one of several chambers. Maybe twenty in total, plus off-branch corridors.”

Twenty rooms – labs? – oh, Rodney would be over the  _moon._  It’s a pity there wasn’t more in the database; and Atlantis hasn’t been able to relay anything more. Whatever memories of this place existed, most of them are gone now. 

Dr Zelenka had stumbled on the promising-looking entry five days ago, just after the most recent databurst to the SGC. They have a couple of computers routinely browsing through the seemingly infinite amounts of data provided by the City’s databanks, checking for anything that might be of interest. Finding a factory to build  _potentiae_  or a weapon to use against the Wraith would be the jackpot of the year – but John has asked Her, and gotten no clear answer. But the outpost on M31-927 –called by the Ancients so morosely  _Deserum,_  The Wasteland – might contain something else. A weapon, anything; the means to defeat the Wraith.

Olsen goes on: “We couldn’t get anything online, it wouldn’t respond to Morrison’s artificial gene.”

It could be broken; or it could be safeguarded against outsiders well. In which case …

“I should probably have a look-see, then.”

Now Major Lorne frowns. He’s still stiff and unsure of the proceedings here, not entirely part of the team as a whole; an outsider, and acutely aware of it. Sent here by Caldwell and the SGC to keep an eye on things. And he’s a stickler to protocol, as far as John can tell. With Weir and McKay both on Earth, wrestling with the IOA, that leaves John in charge as highest ranking senior staff. He might handle the reigns to Lorne, but he’s not sure if he trusts him enough for that, or if people would be comfortable with it. No, they don’t want a stranger to step up and take the helm.

John looks at Teyla, who’s also present. “Mind holding the fort while we head out?”

She smiles and nods. “I shall do my best, Major.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The Citadel" is an area of the City where the marines have their living quarters, armoury, a few training and recreational areas, etc. This is a no-civilian territory, mostly, apart from a shared gym._


	3. outpost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _well, his Daemon certainly fits his personality, John thinks wryly. deadly predator: check._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-06-29) I have returned! It’s been very very busy with exams and other things, and I haven’t had the chance or energy to write for well over a month. I’m glad to be back though! Events in this chapter corresponds with chapters 5, 7 and 9 of [elegeia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6555634/chapters/14998102), but you don’t necessarily need to read that first in order to understand what’s going on here. Please enjoy!  
> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**iii.**   **  
**

# outpost

 _well, his Dæmon certainly fits his personality, John thinks wryly. deadly predator: check._  

* * *

 **M31-927 (Deserum) · Pegasus**  
**15 days after the Uprising**

* * *

John’s head is pounding.

He comes to quickly, in that startled way of being at the wrong place with no recollection of getting there. His body feels stiff and sore. Whatever he was hit with, it packed a punch. Stronger than a Wraith stunner. But he’s alive, and he takes that as a good sign. His limbs are whole - he’ll count the rest later – he blinks, light returning; there is that familiar warm hum of Ancient tech. Still inside the facility, then. Online.

It had been so quiet when they had arrived at the planet, he and AR-2, to investigate the Ancient compound the team had found here on M31-927. Far-off alien birds, but no sight of other wildlife, and the air held this tenseness which was as palatable as the looming clouds above their heads. The thick vegetation around the Gate prevented the use of a Jumper, so they started to approach the facility on foot, while Sanchez and Simmons lingered by the Gate.

Then Morrison had stumbled on a loose, slippery rock when crossing a gentle stream, twisted his ankle. John remembers the sharp crack of bone, and the Lieutenant proving to have a mouth as foul as any. Remembers the quick wish that it’s not a bad break, that AR-2 won’t be splintered. Bad luck (a thing seemingly following them all around constantly), but without any Wraith or other foul thing – or anybody, really – nearby, an order to abort the mission hadn’t felt necessary. It’s just a simple recon and if all goes well, they could call for some scientists.

So while Olsen had taken Morrison back to the Gate, to get him to a medic in Atlantis, John had continued onward - he remembers telling Olsen to radio in once he was back, to meet him by the facility. Remembers finding the slowly crumbling structure, sweeping a hand across dusty panels; the warm hum of the tech welcoming him, an echo of the City but not as deep or vast. Entering. Finding the data logs … Contacting Sanchez, confirming what they’d seen: advising them to bring Dr Zelenka in to have a look – the place was right up McKay’s alley, but in his absence the Czech would have to do and, besides, the guy is more than qualified as well; time he had his first offworld experience. Remembers clicking the radio off.

Then – a noise. Red light. Blaring pain; a brief brief moment of confusion and worry, his Bond with his Dæmon cresting with a swirl of sensations; fear, panic, pain and a cry wordlessly and falling falling falling falling

 _Shy._  The thought strikes him just as harshly as the bindings around his wrists behind his back. What if -

 _[Fine],_  is the murmur. The Bond remains whole.

Oh, thank god.  _Where are you?_

_[I fell and ended up in a damned tree. Got tangled. Nothing broken though. John? What happened?]_

_I was stunned. Not Wraith, I think. I’m… somewhere … in the compound._  He tries to move. Twist his hands. Whoever made this knot was good, very good. Shit.  _Stay away for now, OK?_ The less there is for his captor to use against him, the better.

[All right.] He senses wings lifting; then he returns, blinks again, coming to full awareness.

His captor, who is crouched some way off, by the entrance to the spacious room. A pillar, he realizes, now, he’s leaning against a pillar. Uneven and knobbly and lit up from within in that typical Ancient fashion. His jacket is open, boots and socks off, and all his gear has been taken. The attacker – big, rough, wearing a leather coat – is rifling through his vest, back half-turned. John cannot make out his face right-away. There is an air of coldness around him, something quietly screaming. His movements are efficient, still, neat. Desperate, yet calculated. John glances sideways; there’s something else. A Dæmon – and it casts a shadow that is large against the white pristine walls of the Ancient facility. It’s pacing, deliberately slowly. Could be - should be – intimidating, but John doesn’t flinch even if the thing has both teeth and claws that looks they could kill in a flash. 

_Right, let’s hope they didn’t wake up on the wrong side of bed today …_

“Oh, hi there.” He plasters on his ordinary  _greeting the natives_ -smile, the one that often does the trick.

The guy turns around. Doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t say anything. His Dæmon – reminding John of those pictures of saber-toothed cats he once saw on a family trip to the museum when he was eleven; quietly ferocious – keeps walking in circles, warningly.  _Well, his Dæmon certainly fits his personality,_  John thinks wryly.  _Deadly predator: check._

Shy shares his heartbeat and whispers  _[Certain I shouldn’t come and claw_ some eyes out?]

“So. How’s this going to work? Do I start, or do you?”

Nothing. Either the guy wants to stare him into submission, using his giant looming frame to convince him of the danger, or he doesn’t have the ability to speak. Or maybe the will. Well, he can keep trying. He looks strong enough, and there’s a glimpse of something that just cries  _warrior_  - he could be a solider, with his bearing, but he is so dirty and disheveled and clothes so threadbare that John doubts it. Maybe working undercover … or a scavenger, a lone wolf restlessly moving from place to place. This facility would seem like a pretty nice place to hide out, if that’s the case. Shelter from the rain and the wind and the sun. Shelter from the Wraith, for that matter. They usually don’t visit uninhabited worlds.

Still nothing. John almost sighs. He’s found it’s easier to get out of scrapes like these when his captors can communicate with him.

 _If this is another Afghanistan …_  No. He doesn’t finish the thought. That was a long time ago. What reason would this guy have? He hasn’t started torturing him. Yet. Huh – maybe he wanted him to wake up first. Most of them do.

“All right. My name’s Major John Sheppard.”

He doesn’t mention Atlantis, or the Air Force, or Terra. But a name is always a start.

God, the guy is like a statue, all quiet. A statue with a gun.

“Look, I’ve got people looking for me, and, trust me, you don’t want them to come in here guns blazing. And I’m guessing if you wanted me dead I’d be dead already. So why don’t you just tell me who you are and what you want.”

No reply. Looks like he stumbled onto Mr Talkative himself. What a pleasure. John rolls his shoulders, carefully, trying to work the stiffness out of them, all the while attempting to look as nonthreatening and bored as possible. “Be that way.”

The guy keeps going through his stuff. Checking the inventory. Pockets one or two odd things, including a small hand-grenade. Maybe he’s some kind of backwater arms-dealer - they haven’t really come across that kind of people before, unless one counts the Genii, and, well, this person doesn’t really look like one of them. His face isn’t nearly haughty enough and, besides, a Genii wouldn’t be acting this … disinterested … when one of their captives is Lantean. No. There’d be questions, either before or after a taste of bullets. The Genii still hold more than a grudge against them.

(the invasion the shield slamming against the open wormhole of the Stargate the dozen of lives switched off in a minute the bullet cleaving Acastus Kolya’s head)

John watches as the man picks up the 9mil, turns it in his hand. Knows, evidently, how to handle a weapon, even if it is of alien design. The basics are largely the same, usually. Even if the guy’s own gun probably doesn’t shoot bullets. That red light … energy. Some kind of stunner? But not Wraith. The sound, the color, the sensation was all different. Not Ancient either; John would’ve known.  _So there are others able to produce energy-based weapons, advanced enough …_

“Might want to be careful with that; looks like the safety’s off.”

The guy doesn’t even blink. But doesn’t point the gun at his head either; very kind of him.

“… Not very talkative, are you?”

Gives him a brief yet lasting look like contemplating to gut him. Nice.

“All right. I get it,” John sighs at last. Getting tired of this game. Being ambushed, stunned, and trussed up not only to be properly interrogated was not on his to-do list today (or any day, preferably). The guy doesn’t seem that interested in questions, or beating him, or doing anything really. Some kind of scavenger? That’d explain the fascination with his stuff. He’s probably looking through to see what’s worth keeping or selling or whatever. “You’re some kind of lone wolf and we stumbled on your secret Batcave – look, if you just let me go, I’ll go back through the Gate and we can pretend none of this happened. All right?”

Finally. Movement. Except the man swings the P-90 around to point at his temple, and John strains himself not to roll his eyes in annoyance. 

“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, slightly raspy, like it’s rarely used. Or maybe he always sounds like that. Who knows.

He answers obediently, “Major John Sheppard.”

“Major?”

“It’s a rank,” elaborating: “a military designation.”

“Where’s your Dæmon?” 

“Oh, they’re around.”

“The people you were with – who are you, and where are they?”

 _Now_  the guy is in the mood to talk.

“We’re a team of explorers,” he says. “Those are my people, who, as I mentioned, are going to notice I’m missing, and they’ll try to find me. Right now, I guess they could be doing just that.” His shoulders ache from being stuck in this position and he tries to shift a little, to stretch muscles that are being strained but to no avail. “Look, whatever you want from me, just get it over with.”

A flash that could be conflict crosses the man’s face, just barely penetrating the shield of his gloomy expression. John has a feeling that this man rarely smiles, or laughs, or does anything at all of the sort, or has done it for a long time. Despite the way he’s holding himself and handling the weapons, both the Terran ones and his own, the man looks … indecisive. Contemplating, quietly. Contemplating what to do. He wasn’t in the plan - no, John thinks, he wasn’t meant to be here; whatever this guy is doing here, he didn’t plan on getting company. Not human company, anyway, but still armed and prepared to face foes.

What does he want?

Does he want anything at all?

“Could I ask one question now?” The slightest hint that could be a nod. Considerate of him, John thinks. There’s something somewhat unnerving about the man’s veiled eyes, and he wonders what they might have seen to cause that. So much about Pegasus is fucked up, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the Wraith have something to do with the guy’s darkness. “Who are you?”

“Specialist Ronon Dex.” Recited. Old words, well-practiced and polished in loneliness. It sounds like truth.

 _Specialist?_  It sounds like a rank, of some sort. Specializing in … something. Killing, probably. He doesn’t seem the sort who’d throw it at strangers if it had nothing to do with killing. “Military?”

“Used to be.”

And it makes so much more sense. His tattered appearance; his obvious trigger-happiness in the presence of strangers – shoot first, ask questions later. His weapons – the gun in his belt looks rather advanced, from what John can see from here. The glimpse of a power-pack, glowing orange, a bit like an in’tar but with a stronger bite. He’s got training. And now he’s alone, on the run; from what? whom?

The Wraith, or someone else?

He doesn’t look like Genii. John seriously, seriously hopes he isn’t. Kolya might be dead, but that doesn’t mean he was an outlying single-minded lunatic who nobody listened to - after all, he’d had over sixty people joining him in attempt to claim Atlantis. But if this guy was connected to the Genii, oughtn’t he be able to recognize his uniform as Lantean? He would’ve shot him dead on sight; plus, his weapons don’t match.

So then who is he?

“Well. Nice to meet you, Specialist. You’re not from around here, I take it?”

The answer takes a long time.

“No.” The Specialist’s voice is hushed, rough with memory.

And John, suddenly, understands. Understands, in a way he doesn’t want to have to, and a chill settles down his spine unwillingly. It travels across the Bond and Shy wonders if he’s all right, and he can only nod quietly,  _yeah, for now._

“Me neither. What’s home to you, then?”

And this time there is no answer, and John’s head isn’t aching anymore - the coldness in those eyes doesn’t originate from callous detachment but from a passionate undercurrent of rage; and John wants to take back those words, driven by the need of information, chest contracting in sympathy. They tasted the destructive flare of the Wraith during the Siege, but the shield held back the fire. Atlantis carries many long and heavy memories of War, and he’s shared in those dreams sometimes when She lets him – this man, his world must have burned, too, and his people weren’t Ancients. They can’t have had a shield and a Chair and  _potentiae_  to protect them.

“How long?”

“Too long.”

And he wonders, if Dex doesn’t want anything, anything because he has nothing left, maybe - possibly - John is at his mercy anyway, until he figures a way to get his hands free. Maybe this could be. Maybe this is an answer:

“Look, I – obviously, we’re strangers. But my people, we’ve met others like you –”  _people whose lives have been ruined; some ruined because of us, because of me; I woke the Wraith._  He doesn’t say it, wonders if it might show on his face anyway. When was this man’s world attacked? Was it one of the planets that burned after John shot Colonel Sumner and stabbed that Queen clean through and she choked on her own blood but smirked and whispered _The others will waken; you don’t know what you have done –_

“Ever heard of Athos?”

“No.”

“The Wraith destroyed their settlement, but the survivors came with us. Found shelter. Maybe one day they can go back, but …”

“I  **can’t**  go back.”

The finality of it is bitter, and sudden.

Did the Wraith make his planet entirely uninhabitable? Did they raze the forests, collapse the houses, drain the rivers of water, set fire to the remains? John’s mouth feels all dry. Sees the sky full of Hive Ships again, flooding the air with whining Darts and blocking the sunlight;

“I’m a Runner,” Dex says.

John frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“The Wraith, they put a device – a tracker – in me. So they can follow me anywhere. Everywhere. And then they let me loose.”  _For sport,_  is unspoken, unnecessary;  _for game._  For the Wraith, much of this is just a game. A show of power and conquest and the inevitability of death for the human race. The way the man says it is so flat, like a simple truth, like he has said it before to himself,  _this is the way it is and there’s no escape_  – and hot anger, rage, simmers in John’s blood because that kind of sentence shouldn’t exist. He doesn’t say  _I’m sorry._  Maybe he should, but he cannot imagine, still, exactly what the man means – it is such an inhuman thing to do. He likes to think so, anyway. The hunt. But then he closes his eyes and thinks and, no, it’s not inhuman at all. It is a cruel thing, the game of death and there are only losers – good ones and bad ones and unlucky ones. And this guy rolled the dice and someone grabbed it mid-turn and landed it one. 

A tracking device. Like the locket they had found on Athos? In that case … In that case, they know how to destroy it. He meets Dex’ eyes,

“Maybe we could get that tracker or whatever it is out. Disable it. Stop it broadcasting. We’ve seen something similar before. But we stopped them then, we could do it again.”

The guy is crouching on the floor in front of him now, at eye-level, and for all the brute strength of his body, his soul looks altogether lost. He’s still pointing the P-90 his way and John is only distantly aware of it; the red dot on his forehead means nothing, all of a sudden. “Why?” the Specialist asks, disbelieving. “Why would you help me?”

“I like to think we’re the good guys. And you’re the guy pointing the gun at my head. If we helped you, would you let me go?”

He doesn’t break away the stare. There isn’t hope, just almost. “Your people can remove the tracker?”

“Yeah. I think. Look, I’m not a doctor – but we’ve got doctors in At… at  _home_ , we’ve got skilled healers. If they can’t do it, then nobody can.”

Before Dex can answer, the radio crackles into life and John breaks eye-contact for the first time; he knows that voice.

_“Major Sheppard, this is Olsen; do you copy? We’ve returned with Zelenka and are on approach to the ruins, estimated ETA twenty minutes. … Major Sheppard, do you read? … Major Sheppard, please respond.”_

Ah. Shit. The last thing he needs is Dr Zelenka on the planet right now, with no experience of these kinds of situations. Dex might decide to run for it, and then a civilian like the doc would be standing in the way. And he doesn’t need Olsen and Simmons to turn up guns blazing just now when Dex is getting more approachable.

Again. _“Major Sheppard, please respond. Do you read?”_

“Let me talk to them.”

‘Please’, he doesn’t say. It’s not a plead, nor an order. A request that a captor with a mission wouldn’t fulfil, but Dex doesn’t seem to have an agenda of torture in mind.

He just wants to get away.

Dex nods, wordlessly, glaring at him in warning to be choose his words with care. Holds out the radio toward him and thankfully presses the right buttons. Dex must be familiar with this kind of device, John reflects. “Lieutenant Olsen, this is Sheppard – do you copy?”

A sigh of relief. Uncertain of how long he was unconscious – but it can’t have been too long; half an hour perhaps – if it’d been longer, people would already be looking for him. Olsen would be back, and Simmons and Sanchez would’ve reported him missing, or gone to the facility to begin search-and-rescue. But before that, standard procedures would be to check by radio. Anyone glimpsing his file would know this isn’t his first rodeo.  _“Good to hear your voice, sir. What’s your location?”_

“Well, I’m having a bit of a party with a new friend,” he says, lightly: “of the human sort. It’s rather cozy. Mind giving a call to the old folks back home?”

 _“Will do, sir.”_   Olsen’s voice is tense but unquestionable.  _“Is anyone else going to be invited?”_

“No need to crash the party.” And get shot up in a crossfire of misunderstandings. If they comply with Dex, and lend a hand - allies are good to have. Even if this potential one happens to be the last fragile remnant of a society that John doesn’t know the name of; are there others? survivors struggling through the nights, wishing and hoping while knowing that their planet has been Culled into oblivion?

Dex hasn’t said what the planet’s called.

“Tell them to send one of your medicals – doctors,” Dex demands quietly. “Alone and unarmed. Once they’ve removed the tracking device, you both can go.”

John relays the message: “Olsen, I need you to get back home and get an MD here with a full med kit including a scanner. And they’ve got to come alone and unarmed. Just the doc and the med kit. No surprises. That’s an order.” He knows it will be followed - but wouldn’t be surprised if (Teyla will probably urge them to take caution) some Spec Ops marine sniper will be sent along with the civilian, at a distance. Just in case.

 _“Understood, sir_.  _Anything else?”_

“Get a move on quick, because we could have Wraith inbound any minute because of a tracking device – tell Teyla it’s like the locket on Athos; she’ll get it. Any Gate activity?”

_“No, it’s all clear, but we found some traps in the woods; no injuries though.”_

“That would be the artwork of my new friend here, I’d guess. All right, get your team and Zelenka, double back to the Gate, and get a med kit here as soon as you can. We’re on a schedule. Sheppard out.”

_“Copy all. I’m leaving Sanchez to monitor Gate activity. Olsen out.”_

* * *

Then the connection is severed, and Dex puts the radio down. John watches him tuck it away in a pocket of his tattered leather coat; then Dex half-turns, face toward the entrance of the room but, he’s certain, the man will never look away from him completely, never stop his focus, never slip up. He seems too tough and clever for that. Too well-trained. His Dæmon is no longer walking in protective circles but lingers close, and John wonders why Dex hasn’t pressed further about his own Dæmon. Everyone usually has more than one question when the Dæmon isn’t visible.

When it seems Dex isn’t going to bother talking anymore, until the doc arrives, John tries to relax – can’t, not while tied up and unarmed, even if Dex doesn’t seem that inclined to shoot him. Still, he tries, shifting, crossing his legs to get rid of some of the pressure, body itching to move and be free. His eyelids flutter but he attempts to force his eyes to remain open as he follows the trail of his Bond, through the compound and the earth and the air, upward up up up there to the top of a tree (reminiscent of pine). This way, staring emptily ahead, his body might seem less inert to Dex than if he closes his eyes completely. A bit uncomfortable. A vision of two layers;

Like a crown upon a royal head Shy is sitting, waiting, wings tensely poised ready to fight; and they let him See: the forest stretching outward. The sky is dimmed, the twin suns faraway, barely visible through the canopy of grey clouds. The glint of steel-grey and sky-blue at a distance, tiny: the Stargate is offline and unlit. A hint of movement, wildlife, birds. The Raven’s eyes are sharp, even though the world of colors is slightly different from his own but that doesn’t matter. The vibrancy of the world hasn’t disappeared. They search the sky and the ground beneath together, reassuring each other of their health and (relative) safety silently, the Bond unbreakable with silence. As soon as they’ve made contact, the Raven takes flight, circling back around nearer to the Stargate.

Once they are close enough they move downward: spot the familiar greys of BDUs. Sanchez is pacing around the DHD. The dell where the Gate is located is coated in long broad shadows and the grass is high; there aren’t many man-made paths around here, no roads or pavements, and little to tell in the direct vicinity of a civilization once having existed here. Sanchez isn’t speaking aloud with his Dæmon, but they may be sharing words across their own Bond, a way which cannot be overheard. Eyes peering into the woods. There’s no sign of Olsen–- he must have gone through already. Followed orders. Good. That means Teyla should be getting notified of the situation any minute now, and hopefully any discussions will be swift. Major Lorne better not try take command or convince them to send a Special Ops team. That would only escalate the situation.

They land, this time atop of the Stargate. The marine below flinches as the soft noise of wings fluttering, whipping around, P-90 raised in position to fire; finger pauses at the trigger, eyes widening – his body-language is controlled and tense, but his scarred face betrays surprise. John wishes to speak, suddenly, but Shy has remained and still remains silent outwardly. Doesn’t share words aloud with anyone, not even himself; there is no physical voice, and until now they have felt no need for it.

Once, oh too briefly, they even opened the Bond to Rodney. It’s not something either of them wants to share with this marine, loyal and a friend he may be but he’s not team, he’s not Rodney, so they do not speak, but Sanchez seems to understand something anyway, because he lowers his weapon when Shy looks right at him, slow and deliberate, with eyes intelligent and bright.

“Uh, is that you, Major? sir? – Shit, I hope it is,” the marine says, doesn’t shout, carefully. Shares a look with his Dæmon. Clears his throat. “Olsen and Simmons went through just a couple of minutes ago. Should be back soon.”

John can’t explain that he didn’t just want an update, he wanted to make sure that everything’s OK on this end too. If that tracking device in Dex’ back is anything like the locket from Athos, then the Wraith could very well be on their way. This planet once was controlled by the Ancients, after all, and that kind of location would be ideal for the Wraith to monitor. Maybe the tracker is even more powerful and doesn’t need a relay, sending a subspace message even further. Either way, the Wraith could come. Better safe than sorry. Belatedly, he thinks he should’ve given the order to evac. Just in case.

* * *

They lift off again. Turn toward the facility, and in mid-flight John is starting to get dizzy, struggling to not immerse himself fully in the Bond and still have control of his own body. Doesn’t want to let Dex know. Not yet, anyway. Not unless he has to. Who knows how the guy will react to a winged Dæmon?

During all of their travels in Pegasus and the Milky Way, the SGC has never encountered a society of humans where winged Dæmons occur, or even _exist_ , nevertheless is a common sight. Maybe there is somewhere. There should be somewhere, John thinks, oh, the beauty of such a world; to be able to walk the streets and not feel entirely singular. Oh, people in Atlantis are getting used to it. Have begun to. But back on Earth it’s still such a controversy and, he’s sure, will remain a topic of debate with the brass and the IOA and whatnot for weeks still.

With a sigh, he leaves the Raven to fly freely and enters himself again: the sharply growing ache of his bound hands return, the itch between his shoulder blades, the lacking pressure of a gun in the thigh holster. Dex is still turned away, though the weight of his gaze remains.

It’s quiet. The scrape of a shoe as John shifts yet again. Dex is looking at his throat. His scar. But he doesn’t ask. John wouldn’t answer too honestly, anyway, not about that. Just thinking about bugs makes the scar feel like it’s on fire again. 

What’s the name of his planet?

How many other names is Dex mourning?

They must’ve tried to fight back. The Wraith always Cull, constantly, again and again and again through the generations until there are none left. But the way Dex said it - so shortly, so evenly –  _used to be_  - it speaks of something swifter, something greater, this one event that changed it all. Was it a Siege, like the one the Ancients experienced, like the one Atlantis was forced through a second time? Was it a series of attacks spreading through years and years? Did it happen in a single day?

And no  _potentiae_  to protect them.

How many souls?

* * *

Time trickles onward too slowly. Dex still doesn’t speak, but his whole frame is tense. Always has been. The man must always be on the alert, fight-or-flight, never resting. Never breathing. Who can afford to breathe when on the run?

Any time now. He seeks the Bond again, but Shy can see the Gate from here and it’s not activating yet. Not yet. They wait for a few more minutes, then John makes contact again, and the answer is the same. The beginning of a dreaded cycle. 

But then it’s broken. A shimmer of light from afar: an event horizon establishing. But out comes not a medic, or a Jumper; a Dart. John’s blood runs cold. The Wraith doesn’t let the vegetation hinder them, breaking through the green canopy like slicing through flesh with a knife, surely and swiftly and John prays that Sanchez managed to stay out of sight. The Dart is followed by another;

The radio crackles.

 _“Major, this is Sanchez_  –  _we’ve got Gate activity, two Darts, repeat: two Darts incoming!”_

Dex is on his feet at once, grabbing his ray gun, leaving John’s gear in a pile. His Dæmon moves into action too and John tugs at the ropes, helplessly, shit, he’s got to be free to be able to fight; “Untie me.”

“If I do, we’ll fight them here. Wherever I go, they’ll follow.”

“I understand that. Look, we can still help you with the tracking device. Fight the Wraith and help you.”

* * *

And Dex pulls out his knife and John is entering a state of utter calm, the state of mind which settles like a blanket over him even if his heartbeat rushes a bit because of adrenaline, senses sharpening; and the ropes are cut, no longer needed. He takes his gear, checks that the weapons are loaded, zips up the vest, grabs the radio: “Sanchez, this is Sheppard. Any chance to Gate off–planet?”

The Alpha Site. Or one of the backups, yeah, that’d be better. That way they’ll buy some time, and could get a doc cut the tracker out and destroy it. Or dump it somewhere, a moon without atmosphere, a black hole.

 _“Negative, sir, they’re dialing out, cutting us off. Got to wait thirty_ _-eight minutes.”_

“Copy. Keep your head low. We’re headed out to face them; I’m pretty sure where the Wraith are headed. Shy’s scouting ahead,” he adds, just to make him aware. Dex gives him an odd look. No time to explain. The truth will out sooner or later anyway. “Tell me if anything else happens. You get the chance to dial the City, take it and get out of here – that’s an order.”

_“Yes, sir. What about the doc? What do I tell Olsen and Emmagan?”_

“We still need a doctor here, but I’d prefer if we’d shot all the Wraith  _before_  surgery’s due.”

_“Understood, sir. Sanchez out.”_

Dex is by the door already, his Dæmon running ahead, and John joins him. Channels his inner Aragorn: “Let’s hunt some Wraith.”

* * *

There aren’t a lot of them. Half a dozen. Most of them are drone warriors; slow, not very clever, but their armor is tough – well, they have armor; those without masks don’t. Still difficult to put them down. It takes more than one bullet. Note to self: request the Daedalus to bring more ammo on its return to the City.

They make quick work of it and Dex is a good warrior, strong, swift. Good aim and, whoa, that is a pretty sweet ray gun (or whatever it’s actually called), with both a kill  and a stun setting. And John is seriously glad Dex had set it for the latter when firing it at him. The Wraith crumble, one after the other, and John calls for Shy across the Bond, letting them know their exact location. _[Been dying to claw some eyes out],_ the Raven remarks, spiraling downward and last standing the Wraith doesn’t stand a chance. It’s a bloody sight, but John remains unfazed, and Dex is staring but not because of the blood – violence doesn’t seem to bother him.

Then, of all things, as they stand in the aftermath and the Wraith are dead and the birds have tentatively begun to sing again, Dex asks if he’s an Ancestor.

And John nearly laughs hysterically because of course, oh, it could make sense to Dex, who saw him bring the Ancient facility to life: saw him turn the lights on: sees the Raven land on his shoulder, clearly a Dæmon and not a wild beast. He shakes his head, grinning wryly: “Not really.”

_(if he had been there to see the white light)_

He shakes the thought off, and says, instead, “We should get moving. More Wraith could be coming."

It’s been less than thirty-eight minutes.

But Dex is still looking at him like at something unreal: a ghost: “Your people fight the Wraith?”

John shrugs, honestly: “That’s what we try to do.”

(If only there was a big nice glowing button to press and make them go away.)

* * *

Sanchez is waiting by the Gate, as ordered. Tense and quiet and with a black barrel trained through the foliage at the nearest of the three Wraith, who remain oblivious to the three men and their Dæmons hiding in the shadows. Doesn’t fire yet, that would give away their position. They can’t risk discovery. A discovery that could lead to the City and the realization that She is still safe and sound. But they cannot stay, either. Not while the tracking device buried in Dex’ back is still ticking away.

The attack is swift here too. With three firing guns at their disposal they break through the greenery and swarm the dell, and a throat is ripped out by Dex’ Dæmon as it leaps through the air, sweeps onto the nearest Wraith, teeth flashing. John lets Shy do as they wish: ferociously: and the silence descends again, only to be filled up by the oh so warm familiar noise of the Stargate dialing. Sanchez stands by the DHD, hands finding the symbols leading to one of the back-up Alpha Sites – doesn’t really matter which one. John catches a glimpse – that jungle moon, M9F–481; good: no civilization there, has never been. No one to risk. Then they step through, even Dex who doesn’t ask questions; as if he has begun to trust them, trust them already.

The air is exchanged into something warmer, damper. It’s dark, too, nightfall, and the rush of wind has morphed into the steady flow of waters.  _Waterfalls,_  Ford wants them to call this planet. Well, moon, technically. The gas giant it orbits is looming in the background like a great imposing face, gazing at them all.

John dials Atlantis. Finally. As soon as the wormhole is stable, the Bond with Her is stronger by tenfold, enough to make voices into words. M31-927 was at the other end of the galaxy. This moon is much closer to the City. His hands are steady, and the machinery of Her mind echoes relief when sensing his welfare. And while John speaks with Major Lorne - who doesn’t sound too pleased, but there is nothing to indicate a revolution either (a good thing) – to arrange that a medic – Dr Mallory, apparently – to come and remove the tracker, Dex remains quiet and still and doesn’t raise his weapon. Doesn’t fight.

 _[Trust],_  Shy remarks:  _[He’s seeking it.]_

This guy could join them, John thinks then: He’s a good fight, a good hunter. Reliable. Ex-military. Knows the works and the Wraith;

He has lost a home.

Maybe … maybe they could offer him a new one.

Oh, the IOA are going to hate it, and possibly General Landry too – though O’Neill might be amused. understanding. wasn’t this a bit how they took Teal’c into their fold? having him rebel against his oppressors, helping SG-1 without even knowing their names? – yes. Yes, he could take him and his Dæmon to the City. Show him: show them, there’s a way to freedom, we’re trying, and we won’t stop. we’ve got a shield powered by _potentiae_ and we’re searching for a weapon –

Yeah.

They could do that.

And once the tracker’s out and disabled (crushed and sent through the Gate to orbit around an uninhabited world and burn up in its atmosphere), and Dex comes to again, in a daze, John and Shy turn to him to make an offer. It takes less than a second for the man to react, his Dæmon going from relaxed to tense, and for him to grab for his weapon; a deeply ingrained reflex screaming  _danger;_

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t shoot.” Dex blinks, briefly, and he adds: “We got the tracking device out. We destroyed it, and to be extra certain I sent the leftovers to P01–906 – it’s a planetary Gate, orbits an uninhabited world. Vacuum will take care of what remains of it.”

Hesitation. “Just in case?”

“Yeah. Just in case.”

The ray gun is lowered, but not holstered. Leather coat gathered. “Why are you still here?”

“Well,” John says. Makes a point not to make sudden, aggressive movements or lay a finger on the trigger, because he wants to make this guy trust him and the Lanteans. “I made an offer, on that planet, and I guess I’m sort a extending it right now to do more than get that device out. You need someplace to crash.”

For a moment it looks like Dex is going to refuse. He looks … confused. Like he hasn’t known freedom for so long he’s forgotten what it means, what it tastes like, and he glances at his hands, and then up again. His eyes are steel.

“My homeworld – could your people take me back there?” he asks.

“We can try.” A MALP, they can do; more if the planet is still there.  _If it’s still there._  The thought is winding: how many where there, how many lives - John pushes the thought away, for now. “So what do you say? We’ve got shelter, and food … lots of nice things,” he rounds off, awkwardly, because he hasn’t exactly prepared a speech and a welcoming committee. He can promise those things, though. But there’ll be questions, too, especially from Earth, the IOA. Oh yes. They’ll be pissed. They mightn’t understand. They cannot see this man’s slumped shoulders and bloodied hands and scarred back, his eyes, they can’t see that. 

Dex might refuse; wavering, before putting away his gun and pulling on his coat and he joins him by the Gate.

“What’s your world called – your city?”

The look on his face is priceless when John gives him the answer.

 _[Got to remind him later that we’re not actually Ancients],_  Shy says, causing John to chuckle.

_Yeah. Well, the Athosians understood quickly enough. Dex might too._

* * *

It’s not until they’re on the other side that Dex says the name of his own homeplanet.

“Sateda,” roughly, full of memory and hurt. He writes down the address on a piece of paper with steady hands.

They send a MALP. The Stargate there sits on a dais, high up at the mouth of a valley. And in the valley there is a city, wide and low, with the beginning of skyscrapers at a distance. There are fields that once were green and edges of trees, all burned to a crisp. The buildings are crumbled and the streets are empty. There is nothing alive.

There are still the remnants of corpses littering the hallways.

The images relayed are so grim and silent and no one in Gate Room speaks, as Ronon Dex watches the video feed so helplessly hopelessly, and he says:  _I don’t understand._  They explain the MALP, the machinery. But that’s not what he’s asking, probably, John realizes. It’s not at all what the words meant.

It’s an exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

* * *

(Nine million people, he reveals later, much later;

he talks about libraries and schools and hospitals,

of festivals and burials and the chieftain’s lifting speeches over public radio, and of houses full of dreams,

and a sky full of fire as the Wraith descended.

There is nothing left.)


	4. shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the silent city speaks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**iv.  
**

# shield

_the silent city speaks._

* * *

**Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**  
**18 days after the Uprising**

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-10-12 14:28 GTM-7 (09:34 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Databurst 04 N.B. IMPORTANT !!
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Are you serious?!
> 
> I cannot believe this. Taking in strays now? Atlantis isn’t a daycare. And some, some kind of backwater Stone Age Warrior Mystery Man to boot? And you took him to Atlantis after he  _shot you_  – stunned or whatever but he  **shot** _you_! – and you’ve taken him to the City? Are you out of your mind?! What if –”
> 
> [Meredith, cutting him off:] “Exactly. What if this guy is some kind of, I don’t know, what if he’s a serial killer?”
> 
> “– exactly,  _exactly_  my point. General Landry threw a fit when he found out! And Elizabeth – well, she’s surprisingly calm about it. But honestly, John! We’re trying to keep Atlantis’ well-being a secret from the Wraith and strangers in general, and you’re gathering lost puppies? I saw the picture. He could be a serial killer with that menacing, looming … looming! Or a Worshipper! Or, or - Well, it could be  _bad!_ And I know you’re going to say ‘blah blah, yeah, McKay, of course but this guy is totally a teddy bear on the inside, trust me’ but, I’m sorry,  _what._ That man – Dum-dum or whatever the name is – he does  _not_  look like a teddy bear and, oh, keep him away from the labs! and anything important! Don’t let him touch anything or poke at stuff or, just don’t. And what’s the City got to say about this, huh?
> 
> Though … I suppose you wouldn’t do anything to put Her in danger. Hm. Well. Yes. With pilots like you, you never know, so. But still, I don’t think … All right, fine, you wouldn’t put the City in undue danger. Even you aren’t that thoughtless. Wouldn’t bring this guy in like some lost puppy if you thought he’s anything  _but_  a lost puppy.
> 
> Is it true about his planet? You should have sent the MALP readings. If you don’t attach that data on the next databurst, I’ll make sure to hoard the full coffee supply for the next, next … next  _forever._  And the muffins.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

Rolling his eyes fondly, John sets about compiling a reply that, yes, a MALP has been sent and data recorded, which one of the techs is already busy analyzing. Also, it is very unlikely Ronon Dex is as harmful to the City as Rodney claims – even if he’s far from harmless.

Sateda is a wasteland now, but it was once thriving. Radiation from Wraith weapons fire still lingers, creating a hazy afterimage, but from what they can tell the planet’s civilization was pretty much the equivalent of pre-atomic late industrial era: the way of the streets and the buildings, the size of the city, it’s all indications of that. Images conveyed: placed that would have been hospitals or museums or the beginning of skyscrapers. Electrical lights. Phone booths.

The silent city speaks.

Dex doesn’t much. He’s a quiet guy. Looming. Watching. People allow him to do that, as long as he doesn’t poke at stuff, and he’s got the common sense not to. Plus, John has got Sanchez and Simmons guarding the guy, for now. Just in case. Security procedures that must be followed; Bates would agree, and so does MacGrimmon in his place (even if he really doesn’t seem to want to be acting Head of Security for too much longer but bears it with grace, and it’ll be good on his record. John picked the Corporal for the job because of his proven level headedness in absurd situations). John has got this feeling in his gut that Dex is at heart a good guy, that they have to give him this chance. He hasn’t got a planet anymore – like the Athosians; but unlike them, he is alone. There are no others with whom he can speak a language, share a culture.

Teyla is very understanding, and John has quietly asked her to have a moment with Dex if she can. Try to make him feel more welcomed, safe, secure. Talk with him. She’s much better at talking than he is, so, hopefully that’ll work out. Dex will find a place here. Momentarily or permanently; that remains to be seen. But, John is already seriously considering, a guy like that is an asset – skilled; good fighter; a war veteran; the kind of person one would like to have handy in a pinch. A guy like that would fit in just right with a Gate team.

Others aren’t so convinced.

Within four hours of the Satedan’s arrival at the City, John had had no choice but to notify Earth via the Daedalus, which naturally led to Colonel Caldwell finding out. And Caldwell is a stickler for protocol and proper procedures and the chain of command, one of the most pragmatic men John has ever met; and in this singular action John has probably violated about a dozen rules set forth by the IOA. Caldwell hadn’t needed to yell to make his concerned disapproval clear. The security of the City, he argued; they need to keep Atlantis a secret. They can’t just bring in strays right and left - and John had scoffed, nearly laughed.  _Right and left?_

And he’d said, “Colonel: Ronon Dex doesn’t have a planet anymore. It’s shot up to hell and there are no survivors. Where would you want him to go?”

And Caldwell had silenced, momentarily stunned, then sighed. Agreed that taking in the man was the right thing to do. Warned that the IOA may not agree, or General Landry. General O’Neill, on the other hand, might warm up to the idea, or really not care that much from the chaos of the Pentagon. Other issues. Politics.  _[Oh, nowadays it’s become so much about politics]_ , Shy remarks wryly; they still haven’t heard much news about Colonel Everett. Whispers of questionings by the IOA but Everett’s got contact and high-up friends, and it could be argued that his actions were completely within his range of order: that is should have been allowed.  _Someone’s got to be labeled the bad guy but it’s not really as simple as that._

“In your opinion, Major, does Dex pose a security risk?”

“If you mean he’s going to run to the Wraith or some other bad guy and give away our position, then no; no chance. If you mean he might break someone’s nose if insulted, then possibly. Don’t worry, all appropriate parties have been warned,” he adds. “And he eats enough for two, if that’s a security risk for the mess staff.” (It might be enough to warrant a warning.)

Caldwell doesn’t seem that amused. Rarely is. Stone-hearted. But a good guy when it matters. They do not need to exchange pleasantries, the thankful orderly protocols of the military; and the screen goes dark. John pauses for a moment. Shifts in the chair which he would gladly throw out of the window, no matter how comfortably padded the seat is. Waits, but there are no calls from the Control Room, no needs to worry. AR-4 isn’t due back for another couple of hours. He’s got nowhere in particular to be. Could take an early lunch.

As he and Shy take the scenic route to the commissary, he ponders the City’s latest resident. Whether Dex will stay permanently or not is still unclear. They haven’t pressured the guy into giving an answer either. 

No, Dex doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to. There is a haunting grief in his eyes and they’ve seen the images sent by the MALP. John considers sending a team. The left-over radiation from the decade-old attack didn’t cause red alarms to blare, even though the levels are still higher than normal. That’s what happens when a Hive fires from orbit over and over for days to burn down the villages and the trees and scorch the fields which once were full of live-giving grain. Lakes drained. And even though the images had been so eerily silent and still, it is far too easy to imagine the screaming;

the loss of nine million voices all at once;

The Satedan likes the gym. Working out. Most people in the City thankfully seem to take to his presence well and Atlantis is fuller of people than it has been for a long time; the Athosians are still with them, have been since the storm, those months ago on Lantea. Teyla is talking with Halling about possible relocation to a new planet with its own Gate. But doing that means starting over all again, starting over and rebuilding and re-sowing crops. The Athosians are a strong, resistant, proud people, but there is a limit – is always a limit – to what people can cope with. Atlantis offers a haven, a shield, food and water. They needn’t worry about survival here, not like on a planet without a  _potentia_  and Chair to protect it. Whatever they decide to do, though, John is certain Elizabeth will make sure to support them. Give what they need. Check up on them. The Athosians are not just allies, they are friends.

This mingle of marines and civilians and Athosians, it seems to help Dex somewhat. He and his Dæmon are not the only homeless wanderers. John has made a point to see that his people are inclusive. A little nudge here and there. With no language barriers to breach, some have approached Dex on their own. Tried to exchange stories, light-weight stuff which might help the guy feel a bit more welcome. There is still so much they don’t know about him, but John feels a certain calm about it all. The way the man spoke on Deserum, the way he moved as if never still never safe never settled always on the run - that’s no way to live.

There must be so many ghosts haunting him.

(He is still shadowed by a guard, on the IOA’s insistence.)

* * *

The mess hall is beginning to be filled. A few Gate teams; scientists vividly discussing the latest discoveries or old theorems; there’s Dr Heightmeyer with Miko Kusanagi and Lt Hooper by a table; and by the far corner, near a wide window next to the doors leading to a balcony, is Dex. Oakley is on guard duty this hour, hovering nearby. Stunner in a holster. He looks rather tense and bored, and lifts his gaze as John amicably approaches. Tells the marine to be at ease and fetch some to eat himself. Protocol is usually so relaxed here and if Dex for some inexplicable reason would act out, he can handle it. Oakley nods, seeming to hesitate briefly before moving his feet toward the queue.

Dex, eating swiftly and still in a way as if food is something foreign and rare and precious, doesn’t seem to react to this exchange. Must notice, though. Senses sharp. Still in fight-or-flight mode. His Dæmon, with its impressive jaws, is curled up by his feet, taking up quite a lot of space. John takes seat, taking care not to get too close. Raven on his shoulder. John waits for a while, starting to tuck in. He’ll let Dex make the first move.

Follows the man’s gaze as he is staring ahead. A couple of scientists – one of the marine biologists and a linguist – are hunched over a chess match. Slow and intense and silent, never taking their eyes off the board. Dex looks at them curiously. 

Eventually Dex says: “They have been sitting like that since I came in here.”

Wondering if the game is something echoed universally, John explains: “Chess. It’s a game.”

Dex shrugs. “Seems pretty boring. Nothing’s happening.”

“It’s about strategy,” John says. Recalls fondly all the games he’s played with Rodney, in the days after becoming a team and familiar with each other, before the big mess with the Wraith Siege - Rodney had been so shockingly displeased when finding out that suddenly here was a challenge, and they broke even pretty often. “How to win the war. There’s one piece called the king, and you got to knock that out using the rest of the pieces, have a good strategy, plan all the moves right.”

A hum of acknowledgement. “Had something similar,” Dex says, not  _at home_  or  _on Sateda;_  but John gets it. “But it was a lot faster.” Then he doesn’t say anything for a while. Eats. Watches as finally the linguist makes her move, shifting a knight. Well thought-out. The biologist counteracts with a bishop.

Oakley returns; apparently not able to take the dismissal as an OK to join some other marines at another table, and John’s got to give him that. He’s dedicated. A good marine. Knows that he didn’t have the easiest time, he and Lt Johnson, called in to replace Miller and Jenkins in AR-3 after they were killed by the Genii. Filling such a spot can’t have been easy. Original team members not as accepting to begin with, full of fury and hurt; but no limits had been crossed, for which John is grateful. He’d have hated to have been forced to discipline anyone in those harsh times because of foolish decisions, acted out in anger. 

Wonder what Sateda was like. Its military and ranks and formations, its regular daily rhythm. Not a subject easily breached.  _Specialist_  - that’s Dex’ rank, that much he’s figured. A Specialist of what? Hunting, maybe. Would fit. Or just killing Wraith in general because he seems pretty handy at that too.

He’s a bit surprised when Dex actually speaks up again. His voice isn’t as rough as before, as if he is relearning how to use it. He’s turned to Oakley. “What’s your rank?”

Oakley blinks, not expecting to be addressed. “Lieutenant,” he says. “USMC – the United States Marine Corps,” he specifies, as if remembering that Dex is an alien even though he’s human, and the acronym will mean nothing to him. Not that the Corps will either, but still. “You?”

“Specialist,” Dex says. “Satedan Planetary Forces.”

“Got one united Force for the whole planet, huh? That’s cool,” says Oakley. Takes a bite of his sandwich. “Well, I’m a marine; third generation. Granddad was with the Corps, y’know.”

A pause. “You said on that planet that you’re Air Force,” Dex points out to John.

“Yeah; I’m a pilot. The Air Force and the Corps are wildly different; like cats and dogs,” he says, unsure if the thing about cats and dogs will actually translate well across the Gate Matrix.

Oakley smirks in agreement: “The zoomies drop shit on the enemy’s heads and us marines, we do the real hard tough dirty work. No offence, Major.”

“Better watch it,” John exclaims dramatically but lightly, and Oakley makes a face like relieved that this was not an overstep; back on Earth it might’ve been different, but not here. Especially after the Uprising. “Could have you babysit the botanists for the next year if I wanted to.”

“So you’re two different branches but you’re his boss?” Dex asks, perplexed.

“Yup.”

“All your military do this?”

“Not really. This place is pretty special – got a unique mix, you could say. Personally I’d use some more proper pilots around here.” Rolls his shoulders. “What about the Planetary Forces?”

“One big thing. Many different units. I was with the 13th Brigade, attached to a Strike Team,” Dex says and the expression on his face changed minutely. This territory might be fraught with the occasional danger but it’s not a minefield. He starts talking technicalities, exchanging and they start comparing and eventually, as the minutes pass, the air gets more and more relaxed.

Somehow they move on to weaponry and John can paint a picture: Sateda must’ve been industrialized but not yet split the atom; manufactured energy-based weapons like Dex’ particle magnum based on stolen Wraith stunners. Not developed from scratch. Dex mentions Strike Teams – sort of like offworld Gate teams, it sounds like, but with no plans to make contact with others worlds, to trade or make alliances. No, they only made war with the Wraith. Sought intel. Blew stuff up. Few names are mentioned; and Dex moves on swiftly, as if the matter is painful. They don’t press for answer. Once they start talking guns, Oakley happily starts poking around: asking how the ray guns work. In exchange Dex seems fascinated with their own weapons and ammo. “Haven’t used bullets for ages,” he says, “not since the civil wars.”

Civil wars – so not even in a galaxy plagued by the Wraith for millennia have people been free from those.  _Good to know us humans have always been reckless assholes,_  John privately jokes. The paradoxes. Maybe the Wraith is what has caused so many planets out here to unite and form trading bonds and alliances, but there are moments of brief peace - rare; times when the Wraith have been in hibernation, Slept.

His gut tightens at the thought. An immense weight of guilt suddenly overcoming him.

Sateda was razed a decade ago - too early, and yet … How many other civilizations are waiting in line because of what happened on that planet, those first twenty-four hours of the Expedition’s existence here? since he killed the Keeper Queen and woke them up?

Dex and Oakley are talking about the ex-Runner’s particle magnum. Range and accuracy and the words are muted, like rushing water settling over his head and drowning him and if his zoning out is noticeable they don’t mention it. Too busy. Oakley is pretty talkative. Dex’ voice is a rumble, the echo of a growl. It takes a few moments for John to find his breath again. Return to the moment.

 _[Maybe shouldn’t mention that when Dex can hear],_ Shy murmurs.

It doesn’t matter that they’ve had this conversation once before ages ago with Weir. Angry raised voices - no, no he remembers now how quiet it had been. How Sumner was dead and the Wraith alive and they didn’t comprehend, not then, not yet. Elizabeth had said he’d done the right thing. She hadn’t said it wasn’t his fault the Wraith were awake. But he had killed the Keeper Queen. If he hadn’t … if they had run away without …

The Hiveships would’ve found them anyway. Maybe even sooner.

“… the one-oh-nine model.”

“Higher caliber?”

“Two settings,” Dex is clarifying to Oakley, who is nodding along: “stun or kill.”

“Well,” says Oakley then. “Kudos.” When Dex looks, well, not  _confused,_  but there is a brief silence there which the marine fills: “If you had only had a kill setting, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Dex’ dangerous grin is all teeth.

* * *

> _from:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-10-17 10:01 GTM-7 (00:01 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: Databurst 04
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Honestly, McKay. There is no need to yell at me. Feeling kinda offended here, o ye of little faith.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

> _from:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-10-17 19:45 GTM-7 (25:45 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: re: Databurst 04
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “I cannot believe you to be so petty as to only send a seven second video. Where’s the MALP data I asked for? eh? Say goodbye to the coffee (and don’t tell me you like the not-beans from MR3-555. You are a big fat liar)!”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

> _from:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-10-17 19:47 GTM-7 (25:49 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: re: re: Databurst 04
> 
> Nevermind. Found the data. 
> 
> You shouldn’t be this good at encryption.
> 
> \- Dr R. McKay (PhD PhD)

* * *

> _from:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  2005-10-22 09:11 GTM-7 (03:18 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_ Databurst 05
> 
> Apology accepted in return of surfboard. 

* * *

> _from:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-10-22 12:31 GTM-7 (08:31 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_ re: Databurst 05
> 
> And of course you encrypted a picture of the board you want. Where did you even get hold of that image? You are really a child sometimes, you know - of course you don’t because that was a rhetorical question. That means you don’t need to answer, by the way.
> 
> Don’t look at the screen like that, I know you’re doing it. Go pet your hair or something. Or sleep. Seriously, I can see you wrote this at 0318 SAT and it’s no wonder you act the way you do. Do you write all your emails at such ungodly hours?  Go to sleep.
> 
> \- Dr R. McKay (PhD PhD) 
> 
> P.S. Hypocritical - me? I know you’re thinking it, but we have to be honest here. Our brains are wired differently. You get all out of sorts when you go without sleep. And don’t tell me you pulled an early morning because I know you’re lying. If you’re in my lab, by the way, DO NOT TOUCH THE COFFEE or so help me.


	5. does this postage cover intergalactic?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the days keep sliding by, like clockwork._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**v.**

# does this postage cover intergalactic?

 _the days keep sliding by, like clockwork._

* * *

> _from:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-11-02 06:22 GTM-7 (10:22 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Databurst 09
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Hi there, Rodney. [wave of hand] Thought it was time for another one of these.
> 
> Know what’s the oddest thing? I thought I’d miss Terra more. A little bit, at least. But I’d gladly never dial Terra again once you get back here. Maybe … I don’t know, I have this thought; you know, I haven’t made contact with anyone really back there for a long time, apart from a handful of war buddies; not that – [a wry chuckle] – well, not that most of them are answering that loudly from six feet under … Maybe it’s time I wrote those letters, you know, made a phone call to the old man.
> 
> Nevermind. Elizabeth didn’t mention the IOA in the last databurst; how is it  _really_  going? I’m getting kind of worried here. Last I heard things were actually looking up.
> 
> I know you’re very much not interested, by the way, but as CO and fellow senior officer I thought I’d tell you that Major Lorne’s settling in. Not so sure about him though he is an SGC veteran. Seems like a decent officer, but if this is really the place for him … Makes me wonder if he truly volunteered for this, or if Caldwell just thought he was the most sensible choice. Which is may be because he doesn’t poke his nose in, simply observing most of the time. It’s not the same, though, as being a good XO. Anyway. You still stuck under the Mountain or are they letting any of you out at any point? ‘Cause I know how cranky you get when you don’t even have access to your own lab. You get to work on any interesting projects, or have they shut you out?
> 
> Else … Not much is happening here. Dex is not a serial killer, oh, I’ve checked, don’t worry. He’s gone with AR-2 a couple of time since Morrison’s ankle’s whacked up – yeah, yeah, I know you don’t know who Morrison is – and Olsen’s given some pretty good reviews. Especially since he got them out of a Wraith ambush on M42-P97. He’s a good guy and I think very stable for someone who’s lost his whole homeplanet and everything.
> 
> Botany went to check out the planet’s mainland, too. New Lantea, that is. There are two smaller continents, actually. Didn’t report back much useful stuff, except some very large snakes one of which nearly snacked on Faulkner and they could be venomous. Dr Gregor seemed pretty upset that the marine shot it - but they got to take it back to the City; who knows, maybe it’s another one of those cases where the venom turns out to be medically useful or something. That’s the most exciting incident of the whole week, and that says a whole damn lot.”
> 
> [pause]
> 
> “I admit it, I’m bored, extremely fucking bored. I swear, last time I’m flying desk. Suddenly I’m glad I’m not promoted further. Know how much extra paperwork a light bird has to do? Yeah, at least I’m skipping that. Even if – technically – as CO I’m probably already pulling that weight.
> 
> I need to know what’s happening there, Rodney. If they’re going to do a turnabout and court martial me, a warning will be appreciated.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

Contact with Earth is ticking like regular clockwork; databursts every five days, sent along with people’s private emails to and fro. Reports. News. Many are glad that the  _potentiae_  allows them to open a wormhole – brief to conserve power, of course; using a compression method Rodney’s polished up they’re able to transmit terabytes of data on a whim - to keep in communications with folks back there. John is only grateful for it right now; once Rodney and Weir and Ford are back, he couldn’t care less. The connection means so much more, makes things messier and there’s politics and incoming orders from the brass about stuff they have no clue, and he’s rather just shut all that out.

But he understands how it affects morale in a positive way. They are no longer completely isolated and on their own. They can request new supplies and more personnel. Email with family and friends. Assurances of safety. Once the Daedalus begins making regular milk runs, they can have Earth things here too: food, entertainment, access to news. Things they’ve missed out on during the past year. It’ll be another few weeks until it returns but the Daedalus has landed on Earth, begun to recharge and repack. Since Earth has no power to dial Atlantis, they’ll have to take the long route back; three weeks just to reach the Pegasus’ edge, and another five or six days to make its way to New Lantea.

Ronon Dex has settled in better. Spent time with Teyla and other Athosians, speaking in low voices. And in the gym. A few marines have dared to challenge him only to get their asses seriously kicked; John hasn’t bothered. He’s fine sticking to his own regime and practicing  _banto’a_  with Teyla (one day maybe he’ll win one day possibly) – he doesn’t need any more bruises. Dex has also joined AR-2 a couple of times offworld, filling in for Morrison whose ankle is still healing; not as an official part of the team, but as some kind of odd mix between “new guy to show the works” and “native guide”.

Opinion of him has climbed like a rocket reaching for the skies since, during their second time offworld, they stumbled on a pack of Wraith – around a dozen of them – not an outright ambush, but still enough to spell trouble. Gated to the Alpha Site and then back to the City as is new protocol, to not tip off the Wraith about Atlantis still being very much whole; but not before Dex had either shot or cut down five Wraith with his sword which he prefers to carry on his back. They’d returned with barely a scratch, missing some ammo, and Dex’ Dæmon had had blood smeared on its teeth.  _Hauled our asses out of the fire, sir,_  Olsen had said afterward;  _Could we keep ‘em, sir?_  Sanchez had asked.

John is itching for his own team to be able to get back out there again. Soon. The Daedalus will return with Rodney, Weir, Ford, Bates and Beckett in fifty-nine days if they keep to schedule. Fifty-nine far too long ungraspable days;

Difficult to admit aloud. But he feels … not quite whole. Directs the paperwork if he can but he can’t go anywhere else. Unless something interesting with merit crops up; the IOA are doubtful, of course. Don’t want him offworld after what happened on Deserum _._  If Dex had happened to be a less than savory character, John would probably be dead, or at least had a lot harder time getting off that miserable planet. No, he can’t go; they won’t allow it.

Not that John has been much of a stickler to rules.

The days slide by, and he spends hours and hours running around the edge of the City, one turn after the other. Turns out Dex likes doing that too. Becomes a new routine, a bonding session of a kind. Most of the time they meet up, wordlessly, outside the base of the Citadel, and then they run; they run, without exchanging words, run until John’s legs burn and his breaths are heavy. Dex is in better shape, no doubt about that. Can handle distance without issue. Remnants of his days as a Runner.

(no one ever dares using that word aloud,  
fearing what it might trigger)

While they run, John lets Shy go. Circling over the Towertops. The closest to flight they can get right now, when the Stargate it off-limits. The closest to freedom;

John usually leaves Dex to it after an hour or so, and hits the showers. Depending on the day and what he honestly can bother with, either the communal ones by the gym or that in his own quarters. Grabs a bite of breakfast in the mess along with Teyla. Heads for the Office, next, to that chair which isn’t meant to be his, reviews some documents or requests or mission reports. Gathers the teams set to go for a brief when it’s time, depending on where they’re going. If the planet’s friendly already, an alliance made, a briefing is rarely necessary.

Like clockwork: eat, work, sleep. eat, work, sleep. repeat, repeat, repeat.

It makes him tired, exhausted in a way, the wrong kind of way. He’s never been office-bound for a longer period of time, utterly grounded. Before, on Earth, there was always a chopper ride next door, available. A fighter jet mission. Something. This … this is new; this feels  **wrong**.

He spends too much time waiting. Waiting for word; for messages. Weir’s emails, regular and detailed, are barely on the edge of informal, friendly enough. Sharing news about various things so that he and the others in Atlantis can be kept up to date. On good days, she says something about the IOA meetings, that things have gone OK; on bad days, the IOA isn’t mentioned at all, and then John knows that talks have stalled again. She lets him know about what’s happened to the fifty-seven marines they brought back, how most of them have been sent home for recuperation, a few weeks’ leave, before reassignment. Some requiring emotional counseling and whispers of a handful of requests for discharge. Something tugs in his gut as he reads the latter parts. Has got a feeling about whom it concerns; the squad that breached the Core, the one who took the shot. Only Colonel Everett is facing a jury, for tricking his people behind the light. Paranoid but, John privately thinks, for good reason.

To Everett, the City was a battlefield and there were enemies – there  _have_  to be enemies for it to be a battlefield. What else could it be? And when the Wraith were in the sky, untouchable and far away and somehow abstract – he had looked elsewhere, closer. That one conversation in the Conference Room, where John told his team and Weir about his Bond with the City; that was the tipping point. Taking the abstract notions of danger and enemy and fear to something to be put against. Here was a Strangeling controlling the City with every Expedition member under his thumb, reluctant to make contact with Earth …

To John, in light of this, the Colonel’s thinking makes sense. He’s right about one thing; he  _is_  the Strangeling.

He tries not to think of these things too often but they creep up on him, when all is quiet and routine, when the Gate is dark and no one’s waiting for him.

Six months ago he would have dropped in at the labs if he’s bored and exhausted all other possibilities. Watched what Rodney’s working on and poked fun and swiped some of his chocolate treats (in return Rodney would steal his powerbars), pointed out some error glaring enough for even John to see. Distractingly. Now Rodney’s lab is empty and the lights are off and two of the computers are missing entirely, the favorites which Rodney brought with him to Earth; the rest shut off. One has been forgotten on stand-by, John finds the first week after they’ve gone. Forgotten much like the two empty coffee cups and the various notes on the desks and Ancient knickknacks lying around waiting to be analyzed further. Rodney had warned Radek not to touch anything while he’s gone, by extension meaning his whole department, but he hadn’t included John in that warning and now he goes, sometimes when it’s far too silent, to the lab, shuts the door behind him. Simply looks at the overflowing whiteboards and their numbers and data, the beauty of the half-finished ideas; Rodney always does that, jumps between projects and leaving a trail of tempting bread crumbs behind;

Getting into the computer’s easy. The password not hard to guess. Rodney still has the ego of a giant. John spends a night there, no one calling for him, playing Minesweeper, the Raven snoozing on his shoulder, head tucked under a wing. All healed now. Ready for flight and unable to go.

He records all the video messages in here. Not quite like a real conversation, all the reactions delayed. But it’s something. It’s  _something._

The days keep sliding by. Like clockwork;

like clockwork;

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  _to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-11-07 10:09 GTM-7 (14:27 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  Databurst 10
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “I trudged through all the reports just for you. Here’s the deal: Colonel Sourwolf is on suspension for time being. You are aware, I hope, how long time these legal things take. It’s, rightfully, a mess. The trial itself won’t be for at least another month and that’s rushing it. He could end up with probation or discharged or, I don’t know, I haven’t studied enough legal jargon to care.
> 
> I don’t know why you want to know all these depressing things. Honestly, John - please, stop beating yourself up over it. 
> 
> Oh, god, I’m getting all sappy and stuff. Just,  _don’t._  Colonel Sourwolf is the one at fault here … mostly … That’s what’s been agreed on and that’s what matters. He thought you were a Snake - preposterous! but they take these things seriously, of course … have to, this is the SGC, stranger things have happened … But, as I was saying, they can’t court martial you. They won’t. If they do, they’re all idiots. So stop worrying, all right?
> 
> Now that that’s aside, no, I don’t have a lab of my own and it’s the most annoying thing. Lee keeps bothering me about these Ancient devices SG-teams have found and none of them are important – no ZedPMs, nothing, nada. Not even a Repository of knowledge - huh, with you and the City, do we even need that now? - and Carter won’t let me poke around with her projects.
> 
> She can’t still be mad at me, can she? I mean, that whole thing with Teal’c stuck in the Gate, that was a long time ago …
> 
> You know SG-1 is practically dismantled? Some new guy, a Colonel Michael? Mitchell? – well, he’s taken over now that O’Neill’s in Washington and Carter is spending most of her time on the Prometheus helping out with something I’m not privy to (the outrage!). Heard Teal’c is offworld and even Jackson isn’t around. Colonel whatshisface, he’s interviewing prospects anyway for a new SG-1 and isn’t that strange. I mean, SG-1 has always been the fronting team and the poster boys … and girl … and, it’s just strange. Imagine  _our_  team changing like that … preposterous! 
> 
> Anyway, you’d like him; he’s a flyboy like you except he doesn’t have your hair. Or your brains - seriously doubt it - so, right, maybe not.
> 
> So, no SG-1 to help uncover alien secrets, no projects, nothing but these  _interviews_  where we are questioned about every decision we’ve ever made. Which is completely ridiculous and irrational, those morons have no idea about anything and none of them has a PhD in astrophysics or astronomy or  _anything_  – nevertheless met something like a Goa’uld or a Wraith – as if they would have the right to judge!
> 
> I’m starting to become a nervous wreck from inactivity. Inactivity!  _Me!_  Unheard of. If something would just –”
> 
>  [the Mountain’s intercom system shouts: “Dr McKay, report to General Landry’s office immediately.”]
> 
> a sigh; “There we go. But if this is some IOA representative (god they are annoying) wanting ‘another word’ … I’d rather examine the most dreary non-Ancient artefact brought back by SG-whatever from -”
> 
> [a klaxon: “Unscheduled offworld activation!”]
> 
> “A-ha! Here’s hoping they’ve found a ZedPM-recharger.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  _to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-11-07 11:11 GTM-7 (16:29 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Databurst 10
> 
> Am in a hurry so no video this time. Finally allowed outside this oppressive bunker now that the IOA have finished their torturous interrogation sessions. Physics conference at MIT. Starts at 1200. Prometheus will beam. Hope no fools are speaking, would be a letdown.
> 
> \- Dr R. McKay (PhD PhD)
> 
> P.S. regards from Mer

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil   
>  _to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  2005-11-07 17:41 GTM-7 (21:58 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: Databurst 10
> 
> (Belated) good luck with that and don’t forget to wear your nicest tie. Isn’t that sort of obligatory at those things? Rather fancy? I don’t know, I’ve never gone to a physics conference but I imagine you smart guys need to wear smart stuff to match your intelligence.
> 
> Don’t piss off your fellow physicists to the point of murder even if they are extremely wrong. Don’t want to have to replace you on the team.  You know, if none of them make any sense, you could just give a lecture of your own. Not on classified stuff, obviously. Maybe on the ratio of unintelligent life in the galaxy or something.
> 
> (ps. give Meredith a hug from me. also, don’t forget that board when you get back, will you?)

* * *

There’s a ship.

Now there is a ship calling out, and it’s not from Earth. The long-range scanners shows it is far-off and the signal is weak, barely punching through vacuum and atmosphere to be picked up by the City. It’s begun broadcasting for unknown reasons - John has checked with Her and the City isn’t sending out a recall beacon or anything of the sort. It’s as if the ship just woke up and started broadcasting on its own. A push of button. The question is: is the signal merely automatic, or there someone onboard?

It’s a Lantean Warship.

They’re gathered in the Control Room in front of the screens. The far-off dot is just a blip on the radar of no particular shape, but the City is adamant. Certain. That’s an Ancient Warship.

There’s no activity in the vicinity of it. That could mean the Wraith have no idea it’s there.

“It’s broadcasting a subspace burst on our frequencies,” Chuck, the tech, says. Amazed. “And I mean  _our_  frequencies, not just ones the Ancients used.”

“You sure?” asks Major Lorne, nearby.

“Absolutely. It could be a coincidence, of course, maybe used as a last resort to ensure that it’s heard. But we don’t know if the Wraith monitor this subspace frequency or not.”

“So they  _could_  know,” the Major says, frowning. Worried. They all are, of course; but this opportunity  … And John is momentarily torn because he wants to go there, every atom in his body is urging him to go ahead with this; but he’s not just leader of AR-1 anymore, he’s got to make the bigger decisions. Last time he left the City he got shot at. By Dex and a stunner gun, true. Still caused a lot of concerns. He could leave, take a team, some scientists. Go exploring. It’s been so damned long since last. 

They can’t let the Wraith get there first. 

It’s a message. Radek presses a few buttons, bringing it up on screen; “We are still decrypting but, so far, we’ve got this …”

A message in Ancient. The leftover remnant of a plea. “It’s a distress call,” John says, something achingly empty; of course it’s a distress call. It’s not a cry of victory.

What is it doing out there? How come the Warships didn’t evacuate to Terra with the rest of the Ancients?  **Unless**  …

Major Lorne frowns, unable to comprehend the words. “What does it say, exactly?”

And John translates: “’Take us home’.” A whisper of silence; the Warships has been circling that system for who knows how long, perhaps thousands of years, launched into orbit either by accident as the ship was damaged or deliberately put there to sleep, hoping the Wraith wouldn’t find it. Space is vast and mostly empty, after all. Set adrift, the Warship could have gone undetected for another ten millennia without much issue. A mere chance that it’s discovered. But now that it’s broadcasting, the risk is far too real.

Someone must have been onboard to code that message. Whether it’s new or ten thousand years old, stuck on repeat, they don’t know. Can’t know until they’ve explored the ship itself. If there’s any chance that any Ancients are left on board …

(bodies; shells; souls suspended in stasis, perhaps. it’s not impossible)

A plea. Wishing to be returned to Atlantis one final time and view its Towers reaching for the skies;

“Any Gates close by?” John asks.

“Only this one,” says Chuck, alters the view. There is a planet, far-off: an anonymous designation: no other data. They’ve never been there. “P29-814. It’s at least twenty hours out by Puddlejumper, though.”

“We  _have_  to inspect this,” says Zelenka. The Czech scientist is basically vibrating with excitement. “If this truly is an Ancient Warship …”

It’s an opportunity they cannot pass up.

* * *

> _from:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil   
> _to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-11-10 06:22 GTM-7 (10:22 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  just open this email
> 
> How we forget about the board in exchange for about a Lantean Warship?

* * *

> _from:_ _drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  __to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-11-10 08:39 GTM-7 (12:39 Standard Atlantis Time) _  
> __subject:_ if this is a joke I will end you
> 
> Is it intact? Is it flight-worthy? If it’s sending out a signal then the Wraith can probably pick it up too so you must hurry. If there is any kind of juice left in its engines you could tow it to Atlantis; take one of the ZPMs or a naquadah generator. I need data. The ship could have a Control Chair meaning the Wraith can’t operate it.  Bring Zelenka, he’s the best option after me, his knowledge of Ancient systems is at least mediocre and will get you by, and the City could fill in the rest for you. (Has She told you anything?) We received the extra databurst and if the video conference doesn’t go well and the IOA advice against going, ignore that advice. We need to find that ship! This could give us an advantage which we sorely need against the Wraith.

* * *

The video conference goes better than expected.

Elizabeth’s face fills with delight and curiosity, and Rodney speaks a hundred miles an hour, like an overexcited child about to visit the candy shop. Even General Landry doesn’t appear overly morose. Intrigued by this possibility. They’ve never stumbled on an Ancient Warship before and there is so much to know. Knowledge, intel, data. So much to gain.

And they say:  _Go._

A treasure-hunt.

Major Lorne and Corporal MacGrimmon are left in charge. Teyla offers to stay, but he can see it in her well-guarded eyes that she too has grown tired of being stuck here, in this stifled air. And Atlantis is safe here, at peace, for a time. With Teyla by his side, AR-1 with be at least  _half_  a team. He chooses Zelenka, too, and Kusanagi and Grodin to assist. One AR-team will do for security and back-up; AR-7 is joined by Dex, who jumps at this chance to do something other than sit around. Their first mission since Thompson’s death.

(The three of them have all requested to continue their duty. To move on. Eventually they might have to accept a fourth member into the fold but not yet; no one else is lined up, and there’s not actually a real rule that a Gate team  _has_  to consist of four people. More of a rule of thumb. If AR-7 can function well enough on their own, John is willing to let them have it that way. Adopting a new member to the team to replace an old one is more than tough; John doesn’t want to imagine having to go through it, ever, with AR-1.)

If it turns out the ship is occupied by Wraith or other less than friendly creatures, they can approach in a cloaked Jumper. A few good hits with the drones would do the trick. Or they could, if necessary, sacrifice a naquadah generator, set it to overload; a self-destruct which would tear through the Warship like a knife. It would be a giant pity, but at least that would keep some information about Ancient tech secret from the Wraith.

They can’t let the Wraith get their hands on this.

Jumpers One and Nine are swiftly prepared and packed. Equipment and computers, food and water for a couple of days. A naquadah generator to supply juice. It’ll be over forty hours there and back, plus time to explore, and they all hope that there will be a lot to explore. And if the ship turns out to be intact and it’s just a matter of power, then they can hook up the generator and it’ll give enough juice for a hyperspace jump to New Lantea.

Four hours later, the Jumpers leave the Bay – John flying one, Markham the other. They’ll have other on board, such as Kusanagi, who can take over after a few hours, so they can work in shifts during the twenty-hour journey. Chuck dials P29-814 from the Control Room and signals that it’s clear; they’re good to go.

 _“Good luck, sir,”_ Corporal MacGrimmon offers a wave goodbye over radio;  _“Happy hunting.”_  


	6. all that glitters, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _there’s a ship, hovering on the galaxy’s edge._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**vi.**

# all that glitters

**part one**

_there’s a ship, hovering on the galaxy’s edge._

* * *

**Empty space outside the star system of P29-814 · Pegasus**   
**49 days after the Uprising**

* * *

Twenty hours, past a desolate planet and through the hovering edge of a wide-spread asteroid field, have led them here. The Warship is stuck in a long slow orbit around the system’s binary star, an uneven eclipse. The strongest rays of light come from a red giant and its companion white dwarf which is slowly feeding off it; the star having collapsed long ago as a result of its old age. The planets in the vicinity were once upon a time habitable, thriving with life; the Ancients placed a Stargate in this system, in days forgotten. Other planets may have existed, closer, before one of the stars became a red giant, swallowing them up.

P29-814 is a wasteland of barren soil and icy cold; radiation levels are high but the heat source is so far away now that water cannot exist in liquid form on the planet’s surface. The Gate, resiliently, remains like a dais of worship, nearly forgotten, in the depth of a valley which once might have been a mountain top, the planet’s crust having molded into a new shape over the millions of years since the Ancients first placed it there. One of the oldest Gates in the Pegasus network, built when the Ancients first settled here, millions of years ago, erecting their Cityships;

But it’s not the only remnant. The Warship is far out, at first it’s barely visible, reflecting so little light. Outside the spectrum of the naked human eye but the Jumper sensors begin to pick things up. A silhouette that grows bigger with every passing moment. The docs in the back  _ooh_  and  _aah_  over the incoming data. 

Out here, his Bond with the City is faint, yet he can hear Her, comfortingly, weakly; [good luck] She had whispered before they’d entered the wormhole. She’s helping the people back in the City track them. Just in case.

It’s been a long and tiring journey. The Jumpers’ autopilot is limited, allowing only for small breaks for the pilots. John’s shoulders are a little sore, but he’s flown high-altitude craft for long periods at a time before, and in those you’re strapped in constantly; a Jumper lets you walk around and stretch your legs. Part of the journey had been quiet, people simply too tired to talk, but there had also been some lively discussions among the scientists. Theories. Hopes. What are they going to find out here?

The Warship begins to fill the viewscreen. Once they’re close enough, John activates the Jumper’s headlights. Jumper Nine is coming up behind them, doing the same. 

Lieutenant Yamato peers through the windshield. “That looks pretty beat up.”

He’s right. The hull is barely intact. Several compartments obviously vented to space. Covered in burns: old weapons fire. Yeah, this old boat has been through some hard times before it ended up here, circling the galaxy distantly, forgotten. 

“Quite,” Teyla murmurs. “They must have lost the battles they faced.”

The readings keep coming in. John moves the Jumper around and over the Warship several times, so that they can get as accurate scans as possible. Some radiation but nothing harmful, not registering over what’s normal for the open vacuum of space. They’ve got a couple of full suits in the back, plus HAZMAT, which will offer some protection if they can’t get life-support back up. There’s that issue: is the ship in a stand-by mode because it’s out of power, or is it simply too shot up to be salvaged?

 _Here’s_   _hoping._

Miko Kusanagi is concentratedly bent over a laptop screen, studying its contents. “Any luck?” John asks.

“There’s a Hangar, it’s intact,” she says, readjusting her glasses. Hooks the computer up to the HUD to show a flight path in multicolor.

“I see it.”

They turn around; Jumper Nine close behind. John gives Markham the order to wait for a half a minute before following.

The Warship is quiet. There is no forcefield, no cloak, nothing. Mounted turrets line the hull, at various angles, none of them moving. There are no automated lights. The Jumper approaches, enters the shadows of the Hangar: a sliver of power. A minute amount of energy still running through the Warship’s veins, and now it responds to the Jumpers. The wide doors are open, long enough for both Jumper One and Nine to slip through. They leave the headlights on as the bay doors close, soundlessly in vacuum. Seamlessly:

The stars disappear.

John sets Jumper One down gently. According to readings, they’ve got artificial gravity coming online throughout most of the Warship, but lifesupport isn’t caught up yet. “Looks like we’ll have to suit up.”

* * *

As the team of scientists and marines do just that, John checks the rest of the readings the Jumper took. Gets on the radio with Markham to tell them to prepare to move out too, and asking if their Jumper has caught any readings Jumper One hasn’t. There’s nothing new.

The ship, although eerily like a tomb, is not entirely dead. As if realizing their presence; lights are coming on. Faint and few, pale blue and very cold. Lining the Hangar walls and the doors lined up some fifty yards to the left; it’s a big space. A few crates here and there. John reckons one could fit a couple of streamlining jumbo jets in here without issue. The light spreads, casting long empty shadows.

Now, they can see, there are other Jumpers here. Half a dozen of them, intact. Not a speck of dust because it wouldn’t settle in the windless vacuum of space.  _[That],_  Shy remarks, peering out,  _[is something we could use.]_ Three of the City’s Jumpers were destroyed during the Siege, and they have others that are in need of repair; not many replacements lying around, an opportunity like this is unprecedented. If nothing else, they could take the crystals and other spare parts which always come in handy.

Once they’re all suited up and ready to go, John opens the hatch with a thought, effortlessly. A puff of noise; the Warship’s air recycling system is coming online. There’s actually enough juice left to attempt to restart lifesupport, and John’s rather amazed; this ship has been lying around just waiting to be discovered and destroyed for ten thousand years, yet there’s at least one battery still powering it. The Warship is huge – scans read it to be nine thousand feet in length. Whatever the battery is, it’s got to be pretty powerful.

The second thing: artificial gravity. It’s come online, perhaps a result of their approach, explaining why the darkened Jumpers haven’t floated away yet, crashed into the walls. It certainly helps, since their thin suits offer such limited life-support and aren’t at all made for sub-zero no-gravitational environments. Wouldn’t last a minute without the Warship’s hull protecting them from the rays of deadly radiation emitted from the binary star. John wonders if there’s almost no power left, explaining why there’s gravity but nothing else, not even emergency lights. If they find the Bridge they could hopefully have the ship’s lifesupport powered up completely thanks to the extra juice the naquadah generator will bring.

They exit the Jumpers, Rutherford and Yamato carrying the case with the generator between them. John takes point; Teyla and Ronon bring up the rear, weapons raised, a strict well-practiced routine.

Dæmons don’t need HAZMATs, generally. They can bleed but they don’t fall ill, being metaphysical manifestations and they can survive for a time in this harsh limited environment as long as their human is protected and safe. That doesn’t mean it’s comfortable, though. It’s cold, very cold, and the air is still so extremely thin; Shy’s wings feel all heavy, nothing to carry them up. A shiver. They stay close;

He’s attached a lifesigns detector to the wrist of his HAZMAT suit, just in case. Glances at it; empty but for the schematic still being uploaded via the Jumper, processing the scans they’d taken. Nothing.

“Hm, there’s some kind of interference,” mutters Zelenka, holding a PDA. “Miko, are you seeing this?”

“Yes. That’s strange. It’s almost like that whole section is shielded. There, one level down, about two hundred yards straight ahead. See?” She holds up the PDA for the others; true enough, there’s a large area which is flickering, as if there’s nothing there and yet  _something_. Like a cloak on the verge of collapsing and thus giving off a faint energy signature. Not quite cloaked.

“A shield?” John asks. “ _Inside_  of the ship?” _Something important must be hidden there._

“That doesn’t make sense,” Markham says.

 “Let’s find the Bridge, and breathe some life into this bucket.”

* * *

The Bridge is severely damaged and open to space, the result of a direct hit millennia ago. The Ancients piloting the ship must have had no choice but to flee, seeking out a distant unoccupied star system, and powered everything down – let the ship drift and hope for the best. But there are no bodies or remains; the frigid void should have preserved them pretty well, but there is nothing. Perhaps they abandoned ship – except the Jumpers are still in the Hangar.

Why would the Ancients leave without them?

Unless … unless they’ve Ascended. John pauses, the thought striking. It would explain a lot of things. The Ancients could have gathered in the last despairing moments of battle, fled with the ship toward a system on the edge of the uneven galaxy, and done everything to seek brief sanctuary;

“All right, so that’s pretty useless,” remarks Rutherford after peering inside the hollow room. The screens are dark and smashed, crystals scattered across the floor in a thousand beautiful pieces like stars strewn to imitate a galaxy, consoles unmoving. AR-7, Teyla, and Ronon form a perimeter around the scientists, who are so bedazzled with the ship’s design and with staring at their PDAs that they may have to be saved from stumbling on their own toes.

The room might once have been beautiful and pristine. So extremely Ancient. A tug of sorrow in his gut.

(if they hadn’t found the City, this would have been Her fate. In a year, a hundred years, a thousand -  
the shields would have collapsed, the ocean eating Her up, and

no one would remember it)

* * *

One somewhat intact thing, however, is a chair – not a Control Chair, like in Atlantis, but sleeker, without that fancy dais and the blue lights. A Commander or Captain’s chair, with various controls to both its left and right. It sits there in the middle of the Bridge, a monument. John approaches, and Radek examines the chair as closely as the HAZMAT will allow.

“Hey, doc, how about getting lifesupport going?”

A nod. They bring forth the naquadah generator; it takes a while, but they’ve become pretty adept at handling Ancient tech, and the Warship is pretty similar in design both internally and externally to the City itself. The systems are mirror images; the power grid as efficient, as if copied from the same blueprints.

Soon enough the humming noise of machinery at work increases and settles, and there’s a blessed puff of air as the vents kick in. Clicks as hatches are shut and sealed, to make sure no compartment faces vacuum directly; a lining of shield, like the one around Atlantis, rises to envelop the whole Warship, sealing the Bridge tightly. Then, finally, after many long minutes, Radek says it’s clear. A collective sigh of relief as heat rises slowly, surely, from sub-zero to a temperate sixty-six or thereabouts.

The HAZMAT suits slide off one by one. The marines stretch, grateful, movement much easier now and all their gear in their TAC vests once again accessible. Dex isn’t wearing one; keeps insisting he doesn’t need Kevlar. Leather coat swishing behind him, he and his Dæmon complete a circle around the Bridge, carefully checking. Nothing jumps out of the shadows. Teyla joins him in making a swift sweep. But there is no one on board, at least nothing living, except for the explorers.

The effect is immediate as the air cleanses itself; lights come on, though half of the consoles remain simply too damaged to function. Miko sweeps up some of the broken crystals from the floor into a plastic bag to examine later. Still don’t know how to manufacture those; all knowledge is valuable. A tentative touch to the controls. If there’s any way to tow this ship back to New Lantea, it’d be very nice. Radek is satisfied with the power output, and asks John to sit in the chair; unclear, still, if ATA is required to control the Warship but it probably is.

An echo sweeps through the Warship. There’s no AI on it; not, at least, as there is on Atlantis, making itself known with a joyful cry. But the ship responds to his gene as if aware and a couple of the consoles brighten. The link is strong, clear, allowing him to look at and control the various systems with ease; 

with one exception. A whole grey fuzzy area, undefined. A program he’s not allowed to even look at to determine its function, guarded heavily. He accesses the sensors; looking inward, the shielded area is still there.

“We should check that out. Rutherford, Markham, stay here with Dr Kusanagi and try figuring out if we can tow this old girl back to the City. Radio if you find anything more. Teyla, Dex, Yamato, with me.”

* * *

The doors aren’t sealed with a lock. They open with a thought to a corridor, one of many wide chambers:

The walls are lined with pods. Glowing, translucently. That extremely Ancient air and they look at the pods and realize: stasis. That’s what it’s got to be. A slightly different design from the one they’d found in the City, the one which had held an old and frail Elizabeth Weir and a Dæmon of her own. No, these are lying down, with a rounded shell on top. John nearly loses the ability to breathe, just looking at them. All of these bodies. All of these humans and Dæmons – spread out: there’s got to be two dozen in here; how many else?

There could be hundreds.  _A whole crew …_

_[That’s different.]_

Zelenka examines one of the nearby pods closely, and John holds up the lifesigns detector like a scanner for the doc to see. Viability. Heartbeats. The people in there are  **alive.**

“Well, I’ll be damned,” mutters Yamato, he and his Dæmon standing a bit to the side, ready to snap into action. The light from his P90 casts sharp shadows as it reaches into the corners. Upward, upward, upward. The layers of pods stretches right up to the ceiling, stacked in layers of four or five - accessible only by turning down the artificial gravity. Glowing silently.

Moving forward, John peers down into the pod Zelenka is looking at, trying to hook up his PDA directly to it. There’s a woman in there. Her uniform is crisply white with beige details on it, a brim that could be fine artificial leather. A holster for a gun on her waist. Hair shining white. Her face is sunken, worn, old. Oh, so  _old;_  more than Elizabeth was when they found her in that pod. These may not be as efficient or advanced … or, simply, this woman was older when she was put in there. Nevertheless, the chance of getting any of these people out of these without killing them is slim, and both he and the doc are aware of it. Zelenka is murmuring to himself in Czech as he works; Yamato is counting, quietly. Something catches John’s gaze. An insignia on the Ancient’s breast; John frowns, concentrates to transmit the idea of an image to the City. Maybe She could identify …

[the captain]

John directs the thought:  _Do you know her name?_

The City is full of records. They haven’t had the time to analyze them all yet. 

A flicker of motion, and Radek lets out an exclamation of surprise. The PDA fills with data. “Wait, look. Grodin, do you see …?”

“Yes. That is definitely an indication of activity.”

“Activity?  _what_  activity?” John asks, still waiting for the City to think, to hear him; the distance between them is so vast now.

“Brain activity,” clarifies Grodin and looks up. “We are reading cortical signals. If I didn’t know better, I would say this woman is conscious, and could even be aware of her surroundings.”

Dex speaks for the first time in hours. Was very tired of the chattering scientists during the long ride here, perhaps contemplating if volunteering to go was really such a good idea. “That’s an Ancestor?” voice gruff; and he stares, disbelieving.

The frail ghost doesn’t look like much right now. Not much more than a human. But her Dæmon is invisible or out of sight – maybe, maybe she doesn’t have one, in the sense that Chaya Sar didn’t have one, so close to Ascension that they’ve Merged. The thought startles him. John looks at her again, the alien face. If she’s this close to Ascension, why didn’t she? and her crew? why set the ship adrift instead of joining the Others?

“Yeah,” he nods, distractedly. “Hang on, doc; if she’s alive, if she’s  _conscious_  …”

“That is not all,” Zelenka cuts in. “These readings indicate a definite connection between all of the pods.” Frantic enthusiasm: “I cannot believe this active feedback loop! I would say she is communicating with everyone else connected to the system, creating a network of communication.”

“In other words the whole crew,” clarifies Grodin.

“One long conversation,” John remarks wryly, looking from one pod to the other. Must be a dozen in this room, and if this includes a whole crew: there could be a hundred people. Ten thousand years around the binary star, waiting,  _waiting_  …

“Could they truly have been speaking with each other for so long?” Teyla asks, amazed. The thought itself is staggering; unimaginable.

“It is possible the communications process was only reinitialized recently, once the distress call was broadcast,” Grodin amends. Glances at one of the other pods; Yamato is still on the move, both looking out for possible dangers – nothing here is to be trusted, the guard never let down – and continuing to count.

“So they sent the message,” John concludes. The plead - as if knowing a friendly soul could be out there, listening.

“Possibly. If it was automated, it should have started broadcasting ten thousand years ago and reached the City long before we got there, but it didn’t. They could have taken what control there is to take over the ship to send it, and kept everything powered down to save energy. Something has to be powering these pods,” Zelenka says. He and Grodin are unpacking more of their equipment. They may have to fetch more from the Jumpers to monitor this properly. “If we can find the actual schematics we may be able to locate the power source …”

A  _potentia._  That’d be very, very nice.

It’d be even nicer if they could get this old bucket going and break it out of orbit. The naquadah generator is already plugged, some systems revived; primaries, mostly. Not the engines, yet; Miko is working on that. Might need assistance from Radek and Grodin once they figure out what to do with all of these pods. Once they’ve got the engines going, there might be a chance to tow the Warship back to Atlantis.

Back home.

 _Take us home,_  had been the plead.

John looks at the woman in the pod – the Captain of a ship sent so long ago her name, all of their names, have been nearly forgotten. But not fully. The City reaches him, finally, and She murmurs: [we know her], sorrowfully, another soul mourned, lost in the War against the Wraith.

Atlantis has heard him, and she sates his curiosity: [she is Ephesia, daughter of Illuminus and Aeliana; Captain of the Aurora. she led a crew of one hundred and fifteen volunteers; they were lost ten thousand and fifty two Terran years ago; no further information exists]

The radio in his ear crackles. It’s Yamato, reporting back in:  _“Hey, boss, I found a couple of empty pods over here. Counted thirty-nine so far and it looks like there’s a room beyond this one …”_

And John gets an idea.

* * *

“I’m not so sure it’s a good idea,” Kusanagi says, timidly in that usual way which can be deceiving. One of the reasons John chose her to be on this mission is because she’s been with them through the first year of hell, and she’s worked for Rodney without complaint so he assumes that means she’s got guts of steel beneath that nervous exterior. Like Zelenka, she also has a habit of constantly readjusting her round big glasses. Her concerns are not undue, of course. She and Radek were immediately frowning at his suggestion. Grodin is thoughtful, contemplating. Dex, looming around, had sighed and turned to peering into the distance of the corridors, unable to follow all the technical jargon. Bored.

But better bored than chased by Wraith.

“I must agree with Dr Kusanagi,” Teyla says, sternly. “What risks does this pose that we are unaware of without further examination of the pod?”

“You can monitor it from the outside,” John says. And he’s the commanding officer and everyone knows that, in the end, his word will have the upper hand. But he sets to reassure them. “If anything weird happens, disconnect me. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Yes, well,  _theoretically;_  we have managed to determine the commands,” Zelenka says, agrees, reluctantly. “And we think we know how to manually power down a single pod without disturbing the others.”

“So cut the power if you can’t get me out.”

“Brain damage,” blurts Kusanagi far too quickly and John nearly rolls his eyes – would have, if Rodney was here. Bantered with him and edged him on, but now he can’t. Instead he shakes his head. Would’ve made a joke, but it wouldn’t go down too well right now. Teyla would never stop berating him if he made such a joke.

“That won’t happen.”

“Actually,” says Grodin, turning to his colleagues, “Major Sheppard has already shown a very good ability to interface with Ancient technology. Because of his strong expression of the gene, the system should not have any problem accepting his input.”

Despite the use of third person pronouns, John graces the technician with a grateful smile, trying to look as reassuring as possible. He’s not afraid of this. He’s a bit nervous, sure, at the prospect of possibly talking with actual Ancients. And slightly pissed off at them, for the messes they’ve left behind for the rest of the galaxy to deal with, the aftermaths; but excited; this is the opportunity they’ve been looking for. Always wishing to meet Ancients in person to gain intel, knowledge, technology – what’s better than this? And he speaks the language; Atlantis has taught him. Communication won’t be a problem.

In and out. The chance to speak with the Ancients in person cannot be passed up;

“All right. We will be ready to disconnect you manually if you do not leave the conversation yourself,” Zelenka says, admitting defeat, and turns to prepare along with Kusanagi. Checking that the equipment is all in order one final time (fourth time they’ve done it). No glitches; nothing to worry about. Smooth sailing.

(that may have been the first sign that this is too good to be true

and that trouble is headed right for them)

John checks his wristwatch before pulling it off. That and his vest and weapons and all tech, even the radio which is Stone Age in comparison to the Ancient stuff. Just in case, so that there’s no interference. Then he climbs into the pod, and there’s only an edge of claustrophobia. He’s usually okay with tight spaces, has to be in a fighter jet, but this is a bit too much like putting oneself to sleep in a glass coffin. Shy’s wings are pressed downward, cradled across his legs and maybe it’s worse, this reminder that in here there’s no chance no chance at all to flee to fly away;

“Twenty minutes,” Grodin confirms with a nod when John sets the timer.

Teyla smiles, tries to be uplifting. Has faith in him. “Good luck.”

The lid slides shut travelling them inward into the belly of the beast and his eyes close; darkness overcoming for half a second –

* * *

**_light_ ** _._

* * *

The noise, the air, it’s all different.

To be honest, John had expected something else. Silence and words: a conversation of abstract thought, the press of a hundred foreign minds, like a Bond upturned. Not … this.

It looks like, feels like the ship except … not. Difficult to put to words. The air tastes wrong and clean and yet like nothing at all. It’s like his body is both here and not here, the sensory input contradictory. Yet, it’s real enough. He can breathe, he has a heartbeat, he walks. Like a living illusion. Very convincing. The ship is alight with life, all systems online as they should be. So brightly. And yet –

Shy circles above him, stretching their wings. The span of the corridor just wide enough to fit.

“All right. This is strange,” John says aloud, testes it. Nothing unusual about his voice. But he looks down, finding why his clothes feel all wrong: his BDU is gone, replaced by stark whites, similar to what the Captain wore, the design from the same manufacturer. As if he’s part of the crew.  _That’s odd._

Part of the program?

The Bond isn’t affected, but the City feels so far away so faint. Interference?

Has to be. But Shy is in here with him, the Bond with the Dæmon uncut. They go, carefully, leaving the corridor behind. There’s no sign of any pods even if, otherwise, the design is completely the same. As if, in here, the stasis chambers have ceased to exist.

“You there! Halt! Who are you?”

The command is spoken in Ancient, and John turns his head toward it. The man stalking toward him, suddenly appearing around the corner, is also dressed in white and holding something, like what had been glimpsed in the Captain’s holster – a gun? John shows his palms, a gesture of peace which should be pretty universal. The Ancient – he’s got to be, and he’s speaking the language. His Dæmon is a four-legged creature with a long tail and rust-colored fur, and doesn’t look like a Terran creature at all;

“How did you get aboard?” the man demands to know.

“I am Major John Sheppard,” he says, hands still up;  _it’d be just great if we ended up shot in a virtual reality._  How would that even affect his body? “I came here with an Expedition from Terra.” Takes a moment to find the words, slightly more taxing to speak the Ancient language without the Bond with the City fully intact. “We are explorers. We found your ship orbiting –”

“We did not detect another craft approaching,” the man says, distrustfully. Touches something attached to his collar. “Security to Deck Three. We have a breach.”

“There is no need for that,” John tries, but doesn’t move since the weapon is still pointed his way. Shy has landed on his shoulder. The touch, the claws digging into the white fabric, it  _feels_  real and it’s extremely disconcerting. “We came to make contact with your people, and found the stasis pods – you know about those, right? you are aware that this is all fake, a simulation? right?”

But the man and his Dæmon continue to glare and he doesn’t answer. Within the minute, three others, also armed, arrive; two of which have no Dæmon at all, having Merged.

One of them demands the same questions, again, and John answers: repeating: “I am speaking the truth.” And, since it’s clear none of them knows – _remembers?_ – about the stasis pods: “Could I have a word with the Captain?”

* * *

They bring him to the Bridge, like a prisoner, but the threats seem to be enough and they don’t cuff him.  _Wonderful,_  John thinks, looking around. They pass by many people, busy-looking. Some carry PDA-like equipment. Some are speaking in low voices. There is a certain air of tranquility, despite the words they can snatch up: whispers of  _war_  and  _home,_  of  _escape_  and  _damaged drives_  – they can’t pick up much more detail than that, and they round the corner, go down one level: the path is exactly the same.

This Bridge, however, isn’t derelict and falling in on itself. The Captain’s chair - because that’s what it’s got to be – stands no longer like a dais of a forgotten god, but is surrounded by humming machinery and the collective efficient work of a crew, neat and familiar. Orders that, despite spoken in a nearly dead language, ring the same they would in English, importantly; the chair turns. It’s the woman, the uniform is the same. But the face is young – John would guess somewhere around her forties, but with Ancients, whose lifespans are long, who’s to really guess? Her hair is dark, a cascade of ivory, and tied back strictly. John wears his most disarming, charming smile –

And the chair stops turning and the Captain stares at him, blanches. Shows for a moment the most unguarded expression John has seen so far in any Ancient being – not that he’s met a lot to compare. But there’s something, something in her face and her voice and her eyes, as if she’s looking at a ghost;

She surveys him, quietly, and the guard says, gesturing at the Tau’ri and his foreign Dæmon: “Captain Ephesia, we found these two intruders wandering around on Deck Three outside of Engineering. He claims to be an explorer.”

“From Terra, actually,” John fills in.

“Terra? How can this be?” The Captain has a voice darkened with ages and the rich quality of it is another disconcerting thing. And, most of all, John starts thinking that maybe, maybe, like the nameless guard, she doesn’t **know**. They have forgotten who they are and where, and that this is a virtual reality, none of this is  **real**  – convinced that this is the world they truly inhabit and the stars stretching beyond aren’t simulations. Maybe they have been stuck in here for too long. Ten thousand years without pause.

 _[Which means we have a slim chance of convincing them that we are who we say we are],_  Shy mutters, morosely. Of course this wasn’t going to be easy. Of course.

How can they have forgotten? Have they truly spent ten millennia in here and let themselves slip away? 

_Why not Ascend?_

That’s a question that cannot be answered;

So many questions and he can only ask one at the time, and they will probably not answer. Not believe him. “Yes: Terra. My people found Atlantus last year, under the ocean of Lantea – we are humans from Terra, and ten thousand years have passed since –“

“You speak our tongue,” the Captain cuts in and there is a quiet demanded authority in there which makes John automatically shut up. Reminds him of the drill instructors. Of the yelling without a raised voice; “Yet you claim to be human?”

“Yes, ma’am. Listen, I understand that it may be difficult to grasp, but this? this is a virtual environment and you have been stuck in stasis for over ten thousand Terran years. We found your ship in orbit around a binary star after hearing a distress call –”

“Captain, you must not listen to this nonsense,” says someone else; a woman, perhaps some kind of technician because she goes on; “The hyperdrive modifications are much more pressing. We are ready to begin first phase testing of the new settings.”

“Indeed,” says the Captain. Continues to look at him. Expression now intrigued as well as doubtful. But there’s something … “Once we return to Lantea, your story may be confirmed or denied by the Council. We need to hurry to return with the reconnaissance communique. Dulio, take them to a cell.”

The guard, no longer nameless, obediently forcefully grabs John’s elbow to steer him away;

“Hang on – wait, listen to me! You must believe me. You cannot go to Atlantus because this  _isn’t_   _real_  – there is no Council – Atlantus isn’t even on Lantea anymore –”

A hand waved in dismissal: absolute and final. “I will hear no more of this.”

 (why does Captain Ephesia’s face seem so impossibly  _familiar?)_

* * *

This isn’t reality. In a sense, having the ATA-gene doesn’t matter. He can’t force the cell bars open or the force field down because the program, something in the lines of complex code, doesn’t let him. Convinced that he is the enemy, the intruder who needs to be subdued. The program which runs this virtual reality was made by the Ancients, probably some quite paranoid ones who didn’t want just anyone messing with it. A safeguard against the Wraith.

The Captain had mentioned a recon communique. There’s only one thing John can think of: this ship – the Aurora – it must be out here on a recon mission. Left in a final attempt to fight the Wraith only to be left behind by the other Ancients. Presumed lost or destroyed, or maybe the Ancients were just assholes willing to cut their losses and count it as a win if a handful got back to Terra whole and sound. What does a single ship’s crew and its Captain matter, in the end?

 _[It must be important]_ , Shy agrees. If only they knew more about that communique – if it’s got any kind of intel about the Wraith … that’s something they need. Or if the ship carries other secrets, only accessible from this end.

John paces the cell. It’s smaller than the ones in Atlantis and Shy is muttering; can’t stretch their wings out fully. Obscured. Then he stills, and closes his eyes. Concentrates. That’s how he got in here: the same way should work the opposite – if he could just gain enough control to move within the environment freely, manipulate it from the outside. Armed with the knowledge that it is a virtual program and an instinctive link with Ancient tech, it should be a matter of just

_moving_

Opens his eyes; now, five feet outside of the cell bars. The guard, Dulio, who had looked so restlessly disinterested, startles. His Dæmon practically jumping a feet into the air. Coming to his senses, the Ancient man scowls and raises his weapon.

“I just want to talk with the Captain,” John says before he can fire.

“I cannot let you do that,” Dulio insists. 

“You see what I just did? I could move around like that simply because this  _isn’t real._  This is a program, an virtual environment, an artificial place, and you are part of it. Look, I am not going to harm anyone – I want to speak with the Captain.”

No one listens. Of course: no one listens.

An alarm must have sounded, a blinking light. The folding doors slide open, a heavy scrape like a sigh: it’s the technician from before. Frown deep. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I need to talk with the Captain,” John repeats;

Means to make the same move, return to the Bridge – but the technician, who may not actually be that; a soldier? the second-in-command? – raises her weapon and a wave of energy hits him square in the chest. It feels like falling and standing at the same time. Vertigo while frozen. Like a Wraith stunner, a spread of neurons climbing his spine;

_fuck_


	7. all that glitters, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Five minutes, they demand. five more minutes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**vii.**

# all that glitters

**part two**

_five more minutes, they demand. five more minutes._

* * *

Ronon Dex sometimes looks at the Tau’ri and realizes just how utterly alien they are.

After getting the tracking device out of his back and ceasing his life as a Runner, he had come with them, dazed and, in a way, utterly confused like he hasn’t been since he was a Cadet at Sateda’s Military Academia, trying to follow command with no idea yet how to fire. The Tau’ri speak oddly, most of the time. Are fond of doing strange things, especially their scientist. The marines, though, those he like with far fewer questions. They have some common ground. 

The Puddlejumper ride had been almost torturous. Tight of space, he and Melena had sat in the back. Toyed with a PDA which the British (whatever that means) technician, Peter Grodin, offered to show him how to use. Some games there, apparently, installed or made to pass the time. Ronon wasn’t interested in playing games. Could access a partial copy of an endlessly large database, instead; Grodin had, somewhat gleefully, guided him through a miniature digitized archive. Found some history about the Ancestors, and Ronon had spent the hours reading. Fascinated, knowing that this information comes from the Ancestral City itself – and that is still a huge wonder. To know that to these people, home is not a planet of greens, or some village outskirts, or a fallen city in the dust. To them, home is Atlantis,  _Atlantis._

Once of the Places from the Old Stories.

But the voices had risen, the civilian scientists starting to squabble about …  _something._  Discussing possible finds. Voices over the open receiver channel and it’s incredibly annoying. Truth to be told, Ronon has been so anxious to get out there moving again that he hadn’t reflected on the decision to join them on the mission.  _Might encounter Wraith_ , someone’d said. That had sealed it.

A squad of marines – a Strike Team designated AR-7 – are brought along. The three of them are quiet by comparison. The one called Yamato flickers through a stack of cards with symbols Ronon cannot read, yet doesn’t engage anyone in play, no one wanting to. Rutherford, his teammate, staring resolutely at the boxes of equipment lining the wall. There’s an air of grief here which Ronon cannot decipher wholly but he recognizes it well enough. Markham, the final piece of AR-7, is flying another Puddlejumper; like Major Sheppard, Markham must be of Ancestral blood to be able to fly the ship. No one has properly explained it to him and he hasn’t asked, but Ronon can draw his own conclusions.

Jumper Eight carries most of the equipment as well as two astrophysicists, Dr Zelenka, a man who tends to have outbursts in a fascinating language, and a quiet woman named Dr Kusanagi with whom Ronon has never spoken. The two never shut up, uncaring of the open transmissions between the two ships, passing by the stars slowly slowly.

Finally, there is Teyla Emmagan in Jumper One – an Athosian; an outsider, like him. She is a skilled fighter. They have sparred more than once; she showed him the way of  _banto’a,_  the traditional Athosian art, and Ronon returned the gesture showing one of the many Satedan martial arts. Knows only two of those well enough to be proficient. Those are good days. A way to keep busy and to connect with someone who understands, at least slightly, what it really is to be the human in a City full of aliens. Teyla and her Anima, Kanaan, are kindly and do not ask unwanted questions, no interrogations. Has explain much about how the Tau’ri and their culture works, at least the things she knows. Admits that there is still so much that is strange and unexplained. Retells some stories of her Strike Team, AR-1, and their journeys.

(They aren’t quite Strike Teams. They do not merely attack Wraith outposts to wreak havoc and destroy, they do not only deploy as weapons. They go out there to find new things, explore, meet others, tie bonds. Trade and make alliances. Teyla is a negotiator as well as a warrior. Was the leader of her people until she joined the Tau’ri, she tells him one night, as they are walking one of the Piers, watching the unfamiliar moons turning overhead. She led her people for many, many years, through harsh winters and Cullings.

Despite the dangers involved with the Tau’ri, she says:  _I have never known such peace or safety_.

In Atlantis, they need not fear having no shield over their heads or fear going hungry for months at a time. In the City there is no such thing as cold.)

The ride is far too long and slow, as the Puddlejumpers can only go so fast. No hyperspace capabilities. Puddlejumpers – that’s what the small Ancestral ships are called. Doesn’t sound that Ancestral.

“Oh, that was Major Sheppard’s idea,” Grodin had told him, happily: “As we did not know their Ancient names at the time, the name stuck on. The Ancients called them Gateships, since they were built for the purpose of travelling through the Stargate.”

The Tau’ri are all  _noise._

Ronon had nodded in reply, not raised his voice. Carefully; still not quite a Runner. Cannot stop being it. Looking around corners. The City of Atlantis is huge and beautiful and alien. He spent the first eight nights awake in the bed, the room now to call his, staring at the ceiling. Or on a balcony, overlooking the horizon. Wondering.

(Considering writing poetry for the first time in nearly a decade of darkness.)

He had circled through the programs of the PDA, without actually seeing the screen. Thinking. Had been so relieved to move when Major Sheppard announced they were coming up on the Ancestral Warship - it filled the windshield, blocking out the stars. Worn and beaten. That ship had fought hard, and lost.

* * *

No bodies in the abandoned hallways.

Pods. Grodin explains that stasis is a bit like a deep sleep, making you able to preserve your life your years, for millennia, for such long stretches of time that Ronon starts wondering if the Ancestors truly would have made that. That is no way to live. No way to breathe, to move;

When they find one of the pods empty, Ronon stands back. Still on the lookout but it’s silent. The only noise-makers are the Tau’ri as Major Sheppard reclines into the pod and, in a certain sense, disappears from existence. The scientists keep whispering and looking at their data screens, the machinery hooked up to the Ancestral technology, crudely, bits of wire and metal and it looks so out of place. The Major is lying still, eyes closed. Could be sleeping. The only quiet one; he and his Anima, unmoving in there.

It’s not natural.

Markham, AR-7’s team leader, is pacing. Clearly doesn’t like this, expression pinched. Ronon can understand; not comprehending the technology or what is trying to be achieved, other than trying to speak with the Ancestors. A massive opportunity. Ronon had thought they were all dead. That that’s why they haven’t returned to cleanse the galaxy from the scourge of the Wraith. The Major is these people’s commanding officer, and to see him like that … it would make any solider nervous.

Another report. They keep coming steadily every few minutes, as Yamato and Rutherford –- the Bridge now abandoned; the only focus this one – finish walking through yet another corridor or room.  _“More pods. And a box of frozen rations: ten thousand year old rations. Lovely,”_  comments Rutherford. Sounds like he’s poking at something with a booted toe.  _“All right, we’ll get back to_ – _hey, what’s that?”_

In mid-step, Markham ceases moving. Goes immediately tense, grasping his P-90 tightly. Voice pressed. “What’s going on?”

_“Wait. Looks like … that doesn’t look like Ancient tech. Does it?”_

A joining voice:  _“No,”_  Yamato is saying. Their voices mute, suddenly. They’re taking point, moving toward the unknown. Ronon, itching from standing here unable to see and only to listen to the frequencies, reaches for his particle magnum.

Trouble. Every instinct screams trouble. Melena is already extending her claws. Ready.

“Talk to me,” Markham says, tersely;

 _“Shit,”_  Rutherford breaths then. A sharp inhale.  _“Wraith!”_

_WRAITH._

Ronon moves, unasked for. The word a trigger. Recalls the last report: they’re one level down, two corridors left –

“Hang on! wait! Shit, shit. Rutherford, Yamato, report!” Markham barks.

The scientists have stopped talking. Looking up now. The three of them are pale.

 _“There’s a Sucker in one of the pods,”_  Yamato is saying, hurriedly. “ _It’s in there, just like the Major, and there’s this device_ – _fuck, what do we do?”_

* * *

Ronon reaches the corridor with his weapon aimed high and the safety off;

They’re not firing at it. They’re not wrenching it out of there and  _why_  by the Moons  _why aren’t they_   **firing**  -  _?!_

“Wait!” It’s Rutherford who takes command. Markham has stayed with Grodin at the Major’s pod, and Dr Zelenka and Kusanagi round the corner half a minute later, warily. Slightly out of breath. “What if killing it would do something? Like, with the Major?”

“Fuck, you just had to say that, didn’t you,” mutters Yamato and clenches his fist, unclenches it, an angry rhythm. 

Rutherford taps his earpiece, which functions as a receiver, Ronon has come to learn. Small and practical. “Markham, you listening to this?”

_“Yeah. That Sucker moving?”_

“No, it’s completely still. We’ve found a body, too. Looks like it’s replaced one of the crew.”

A withered husk lies on the floor, thrown aside, silver hair twisted to hide its now hideous face. That was an Ancestor, and Ronon gives the body half a thought. No one to mourn; what’s important right now is the Wraith. They’ve got to kill it. How can they not see that? They’ve got to  **destroy it;**

“Docs, tell us something here. Do we blow that shit up or not?”

“I, uh,” Zelenka says, haltingly. “We should take a closer look at that, that device. We don’t know what Wraith is doing with the system. It could be interfering …” Hesitates to move forward. He looks terrified, petrified down to his bones. Difficult to breathe.

Maybe he’s never seen a Wraith in person before.

It’s Kusanagi who makes the move, striding forward after taking a deep calming breath. Her Anima hides in her jacket, though, small enough to do that. She looks at the Wraith device – it’s the size of a hand, attached to the wall with a sticky substance like glue, and a couple of wires are connecting it to the active pod. Considers its blinking lights, typing something at her PDA, a calculation, whatever – Ronon doesn’t see it, unable to take his eyes off the Wraith for a second. It’s dressed in black leather and its hands are crossed over its chest, the mocking of a prayer;

“Radek, look at this. It’s emitting a frequency …”

The doctor forces his feet to move, and the two set to work. The marines and the Satedan wait, wait tersely and their fingers are resting on the trigger.

“Could we just shut it down and kill it now?” Yamato asks, impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other.

“It’s affecting the feedback loop,” Doctor Zelenka says, frantically. Sweat pearls in the back of his neck and on his forehead. “Disconnecting it from the system could cause a cascade failure –”

“– to the point of a breach of all the other pods, yes,” finishes Kusanagi. “What if we wrote an isolation program before attempting extraction?"

“Yes, that could possibly -”

Another interruption. It’s Grodin, from where he’s monitoring the Major:  _“Something’s happened. I am reading delta waves, as if Major Sheppard is unconscious. Shall I disconnect him?”_

It’s not been twenty minutes yet.

“Wait,” Zelenka says. Disbelief; “That could cause more harm than good at the moment, before we know more about how the Wraith is interfaced with the system. Is the Major stable?”

 _“Yes, pulse is steady and everything is fine otherwise, as far as I can tell.”_ No flashing red lights. _“It’s as if he has been knocked out.”_

Kusanagi shares a look with the Czech man. They speak, simultaneously: _the Wraith._ It has got to be.

 _“You’d better get rid of that thing, docs,”_  Markham growls, _“before it ends up killing the Major; or I_   **will**   _give the order to open fire.”_

 

_[ow ow ow]_

* * *

He comes to in the cell, and can’t remember getting there.

A headache. Strange. Didn’t think he could get those in a virtual world. But here he is. He drags himself up into a sitting position. Opens his eyes: the Raven is five feet away, on the limit of an average Dæmon can handle in terms of distance from their human. A new forcefield raised around them; at least there was no touch involved. John exhales, shakily, and gets to his feet. 

 _[Got to stop from doing that],_ Shy groans. Wings ruffling; feel a bit stiff. Uncomfortable position.

 _It’s not_   ** _my_**   _fault we keep getting stunned …_

The guard and the blonde woman he’s not so sure about are there. She’s looking at him curiously and with eyes that are cold even by Ancient standards. The hint of a smirk. 

“Hi there. Seems like we got off on the wrong foot,” John says. Would have offered a hand to shake. Now he just grins, lopsidedly. The woman looks sourer at that. All right, so charm doesn’t work. These folks are simply so deeply buried in their dreamscape without any thought of doing otherwise, that belief is out of the question. So is trust. The Captain … there’d been a glimpse there, a moment of hesitation. When he’d mentioned Earth and the City – if only he could talk with her again. Maybe …

“You claim to be from Terra in the far future,” says the Ancient, “and yet you know of Atlantus. How can this be?”

“We found the City,” John says. “It has been abandoned for ten thousand years. The War – your people lost it, and the City was evacuated.”

“Impossible,” is the answer. Immediate and strong and powerful in its definition of certainty. “We would have turned the tides.”

"But you didn’t.”

A shake of head. She says no more, turns to leave.

“Wait! Let me talk to the Captain –”

“I believe you have spoken enough.”

The doors close. John draws a breath through clenched teeth. Just how long was he unconscious? Does it even count as unconsciousness if his body was already in a sleeplike state, unmoving? He’s not sure how much time he’s got left until Grodin and Zelenka will manually disconnect him, and a fiercely burning emotion in his gut is screaming to make him face the Captain at least once more; to try. To convince them to see the truth and wake. Then they could have a chance at Ascension, if they wanted; how could they when they’re stuck here, in a place without time? No, they’ve got to see the truth. And the intel hidden in that communique …

So he seeks his Bond with his Dæmon – [unharmed], is the reassurance, [we’re all right] - and they knot together, doing what they did before. Know the path to the Bridge: closing his eyes, he visualizes it, the consoles, every nook and alcove, the blinking lights. The chair and the movement of people. The City isn’t here to help him;

vaguely, faintly –

_moving._

* * *

And he’s on the Bridge, he and Shy together without any forcefield and the Captain is there, along with many other crew. Movement ceases, and someone shouts, someone raises one of those weapons –  _not real; not real; not real._  John concentrates. The Warship doesn’t have an AI like the City but it’s still a complex network of computers and if he could just find the right one … 

The Captain holds up a hand, and the shot isn’t fired. “I see you are persistent.”

And something passes over her face almost like fondness. Like she isn’t really seeing him at all, not this human and strange Dæmon, but someone else entirely; “Say I believe you, Iohn Sheppard, and believe you have come from Terra, bearing news from the future – claiming Atlantus to be gone from Lantea. What is your purpose here?”

“We flew the City away because of the Wraith, barely managing to escape. They besieged us with a dozen Hives and they’re still out there and we’re at war. We found the Aurora because the ship is broadcasting a message on  _our_  frequencies –”

Interruption. “We have sent no such broadcast.” A flickering gaze. She may be beginning to waver; may want to understand, to realize.  _Please, please,_  John silently begs.  _Believe._

“That’s how we found you. The specific message was:  _Take us home_.”

please, take us home.

Captain Ephesia seems to deflate then, and she, surprisingly, nods. Then she turns to her crew and dismisses them. “We shall speak. I am listening.” No one questions her orders, and the crew filters out, one at a time, until the Bridge is silent but for the four of them. Ephesia’s Dæmon rests by her feet – John sharply wonders what its name is, and how come it has taken a Shape in here while on the outside it has already Merged with its human – and she stands up from the Chair. She’s tall, and her expression is serious and suddenly so tired, so tired, a facade fading away.

She’s being strong for her crew’s sake.

“Ten thousand years.” Ephesia uncrosses her arms, a weary sigh, and gestures toward the wide thick windows, at the stars streaming by; now, he realizes, they’re no longer moving at sublight. This is hyperspace flight. Past the infinite expanse of fake stars. Still beautiful. “We have worked so hard and long to return to Atlantus, hoping that our newly required knowledge would bring a tide to the War in our favor. Look me in the eye and tell me it was in vain.”

“No, no, it is not if you can tell us what the intel is,” he says. “I’m speaking the truth.”

A sigh. She is ten thousand years old and now, now it begins to show. The cracks in the sand. “I have suspected for some time that we were simply deceiving ourselves.”

John blinks. Tries to grasp the concept, lying on the brink of human comprehension. “You don’t remember putting yourselves in stasis?”

Ephesia smiles sadly. “It must have been so long ago that our minds turned the knowledge aside in despair.” A pause. “Tell me, how did you acquire this language?”

“I.” He hesitates, for the first time since the start of this mission. “The City taught me,” he decides on. It’s the answer closest to the truth; there is no other teacher. “She also told me about you, Captain. She told me that you’re the daughter of Illuminus and Aeliana, that you and your crew set out from Atlantus ten thousand and fifty eight Terran years ago and didn’t return.”

take us home

And the Captain doesn’t seem that surprised at that answer, which to any other person would have seemed so pointlessly meaninglessly cryptic and evasive. “And the City? If She is not on Lantea, then where?”

The use of the pronoun. But a lot of people talk of ship and machines and cities as of living people, and John doesn’t reflect on it until later. “She’s all right. We found a new planet to hide out on after the Siege. We didn’t manage to defeat the Wraith, only escape. Please, if there is  _anything_  in that communique that could help us …”

* * *

 _Five minutes,_  they demand.  _Five more minutes._  And if they cannot disconnect the Wraith then, the marines are free to wrench away the glass and put a dozen rounds into its head;

Ronon counts down slowly. Melena prowling back and forth; ready to pounce;

Imagines, has imagined, a hundred different ways to sever the Wraith’s damned head from its filthy shoulders as the seconds pass and the scientists work frantically, frantically. After three minutes, more bad news arrive: a cry. The Warship’s sensors have picked up something else. Markham raises the alarm, the only person with the Ancestral blood. How that works, Ronon is not entirely sure.

(still not convinced about the lie that Major Sheppard isn’t more than merely human)

 _“Something’s happening, something about the star, I’m not sure,”_ Markham says. _“Help me out here, I don’t speak science.”_

And Grodin says:  _“Rising levels of energy output and radiation … reading an extensive amount of carbon fusion … Oh, this is not good.”_

“What does that mean?” Yamato demands. The height of their day, huh. Ancients in stasis chambers aboard an alien Warship and Wraith intruders, and now a star is messing up the equation yet again. Exchanges a meaningful look with Rutherford, as if saying: ‘And you thought this babysitting duty would be boring’.

 _“That means we have a white dwarf about to go supernova, and quite soon, if these readings are correct. The ship began detecting it some time ago; we were just too slow to notice because of interference with the sensors. The process must have started thousands of years ago, stripping the companion star of its contents to create an accretion disk around the white dwarf; we just didn’t realize it before. It’s happening extremely fast_ – _”_

 _“English, please,”_ Markham says.

A sigh, but the engineer complies: _“The white star will die in a massive explosion, the radius of which will reach the Aurora and cause the ship extensive damage, possibly destroying it completely. If the immediate explosion does not cause damage, the blast of radiation surely will.”_

“Supernova? Like a big big bang?” repeats Rutherford. “Wow, wonder if AR-1 deals with this kind of shit all the time. I mean, it’s exciting enough once or twice, but …”

“Shut it, marine!” a bark from Markham. “What’s the time-frame here?”

 _“An hour, perhaps,”_ Grodin says. _“We need to be gone by then, preferably with this ship in tow.”_

 _“Do prdele!_  Now I understand why I did not wish to go offworld,” murmurs Dr Zelenka. “Too much stress for the heart. I shall die young,  _pokud nemám přestat dělat špatná rozhodnutí.”_

They’re doing everything they can but the very thought of attempting to hack into and isolate, reprogram, a single strand of this complex entity … the task is monumental. One of them mentions a McKay – Ronon has heard the name before, passing-by. Annoyed marines joking with each other and speaking the name with mixed emotions. A scientists revering the man’s intellect but otherwise insulting him quite badly. Ronon has no idea, really, who he is, other than he is somewhat of importance. Major Sheppard doesn’t speak of him that often but when he does, he’d always avert his eyes slightly as if he’s speaking lies. Hiding something, before smiling and moving on.

 _“Come on, docs. Talk to me,”_  Markham says. Pacing again. “ _What’s happening over there?”_

“We’re trying to isolate the, the –  _zpětná vazba_ – the feedback loop from the rest of the communications network. Is difficult work. We cannot work miracles, Sergeant.”

Yamato snorts. “Seems like McKay pulls one out of his ass every two minutes.”

Dr Zelenka glares at the marine very sourly. “Rodney and I may be equal in many ways but I admit he does have a tendency to work slightly faster.”

_“One minute.”_

“Just …” Incessant tapping noise the numbers passing by the voices the noise; the two scientists run the permutations, murmuring,  _this isn’t working_  –

Concentration. The noise,  _the noise;_  these Tau’ri don’t know silence, not the way Ronon and Melena have experienced it, flourished in it, for the past eight years;

_“Thirty seconds.”_

* * *

“We sought a way to send the Wraith back into hibernation,” Ephesia explains. “If they could be forced into another Long Sleep, even the Keeper Queens, then we would have time to device a new weapon to defeat them. Our mission was to one of their original homeworlds, where they yet linger, to infiltrate their largest Hibernation Chamber. We succeeded, and took much data with us, which several of my crew immediately began working on to find a way to reverse-engineer the Call For Sleep. But we were ambushed shortly afterward, and the Aurora was badly damaged. That was when we placed ourselves in stasis and set the ship to drift; shielding ourselves from the rest of the galaxy.” A hand, stroking her Dæmon’s head idly. “While we waited, I imagine, we were planning on finalizing the plan and make the blueprints of a weapon, hoping to one day be rescued by our people. But time took us … took all of us.”

“Where are the plans now?”

(hope. a way of winning, of  _surviving)_

“They can be accessed from the ship’s computer.” Ephesia moves from her Captain’s chair, the throne, and approaches a console. Brings up a screen. She places her hand on a scanner, and John realizes that they must have kept the information under lock and key, heavily guarded, so that not just anyone could access and tamper with it or destroy it. It’s scanning her DNA, not merely seeking her ATA-gene but the complete Ancient genome; she lifts her hand, and two things happen.

The doors slide open, and the second-in-command streams inside, a number of guards behind her, arms raised. “Step away from the Captain,” she commands;

The screen is dark. There is no data.  _There is no data_ –

 _[Someone’s deleted it]_ , Shy fumes, seeing it; it’s the only way. Someone has deliberately deleted every notion of that file. Who? and why? a saboteur.

Captain Ephesia turns to the intruders calmly. “Lower your weapons, Caelia.”

“I cannot, Captain. The intruder broke out of the brig; he must be neutralized.”

“No, Caelia. We are the ones at fault. He speaks the truth.”

“He does not. Captain –”

“Did I give you permission to speak?" Ephesia returns to her chair, and looks down at the crew: and John feels oddly small, all of a sudden. Shivers. “Answer me this: does this place not feel wrong? Is there not something missing? This is not the reality we seek. Our bodies and our Animae rest in stasis aboard the true Aurora.”

* * *

_Time’s up._

Ronon takes the shot as Rutherford forcibly yanks the machinery open, glass shattering and metal creaking. Bullets fly, and the two scientists have thrown themselves to the floor, covering their heads, their ears. Dæmons trembling. The Wraith snarls, eyes flying open: it gives a cry, confused, angry, tries to leap toward them. Ronon fires, keeps firing. Yamato puts a bullet right in its throat, and Ronon reaches for the trusty sword resting on his back. Slides it out and swings it:

“That’s fucking disgusting,” remarks Rutherford, the firing ceasing. The head rolls across the floor, blood spurting; “But efficient.”

The device is blown to smithereens by a round of bullets, and then smashed to the ground. Probably best to throw it out of an airlock later, too, just to be safe.

As the civilians try to get back to their feet (pointedly not looking at the Wraith body: they would probably throw up), Ronon pulls out a cloth to clean the blade, and Rutherford reports back to Markham: “Tango down, repeat: Tango down. Sucker’s been neutralized; head’s off, literately - nice one by Dex. What’s the situation with the Major?”

_“Still in the pod. Brain levels are back to normal, as if he’s awake again. Get back here.”_

“Copy that. Come on, folks, you heard the Sergeant. Let’s move it.”

The Major has been in that pod now for nineteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds –

* * *

_nineteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds thirty thirty-one;_

* * *

“But the hyperdrive modifications,” tries Caelia, desperately; “We must –”

And the woman  _jerks._  No, the image of her flickers. As if she’s suddenly become unstable, a splitting atom. She gasps and stumbles, and it’s much like a grainy image turning grey. For a moment she’s frozen in time and John understands: the body is dying. The woman is breaking free from the virtual environment. Must be the first person here to die -

Someone cries her name. Panic. Fear. But she’s gone.

Captain Ephesia stands up rapidly. “That is not how a stasis pod ought to be disconnected.”

Unsaid: she must have been killed. But by what? her body –

_Her body is on the outside._

Something or someone killed that body from the outside, and John can’t imagine his people doing that. Not without undue cause; but what if –

(an intruder; a saboteur)

And the Captain turns to him. “You should go.”

There’s no information for him to gather. Yet, he pauses. “What about you and your crew?”

“Our bodies,” she says, heavily, “must be old. Too old, if ten thousand Terran years have passed. We could seek Ascension from within this place. Some of us are close enough. But it cannot be fully achieved without leaving the virtual environment we have built for ourselves.”

And that would kill them.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, we have lived long lives, all of us. Fulfilling lives. And what other life could one wish for?” Ephesia looks at him again, like when first laying eyes on him. “The future is outside of our hands now. We will attempt to Ascend; I will tell my crew the truth. Tell me, though. You are a Descendant, are you not? It is the only explanation why you can speak with our Last Cityship.”

 

* * *

_nineteen minutes and fifty-five seconds fifty-six_

* * *

He nods. Wonders, suddenly, if other answers are within his grasp: “You know how that works? No one else I know can hear Her.”

“Certain bloodlines are related to the Merged,” is the answer, cryptic but searing into his mind to analyze later: “My own son was one of the

* * *

_seven eight nine;_

* * *

Markham gives the order: “Pull the plug.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Czech translations** : (this may be erroneous; please tell me if you know so I can correct it!)  
>  **do prdele** fuck, shit, damn it  
>  **pokud nemám přestat dělat špatná rozhodnutí** if I don't stop making bad decisions  
>  **zpětná vazba** feedback loop


	8. the first descendant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _a star exploding is a beautiful thing;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**viii.**

# the first descendant

_a star exploding is a beautiful thing;_

* * *

John draws a shuddering breath. His ears are ringing.

 _[no, no, we didn’t get the answer!]_  Shy cries as they come to, finding the pod drawn out and opened, light streaming inside, prickling in his eyes. Blinks. Takes a second to adjust. What just happened?

Someone is shining a ray of white right into his eyes and he swats them away, annoyed and slightly dizzy. “What – jeez, don’t do that. I don’t have brain damage.”

“Sorry, Major,” Grodin says apologetically and switches off the lamp. “Just wanted to make sure there was no harm done.”

“There isn’t, but you could’ve let me finish the sentence back there.”

‘So you spoke with them?’the exciting question; or, that’s what John had imagined would come. No one asks it. Instead he pulls himself into a sitting position, seeing their faces. Drawn, tense, dark. Rutherford pacing and Markham’s back ramrod straight with deep seriousness, and Dex – hang on, is that blood? an echo on his handwoven tunic, a splatter in his Dæmon’s fur. And Zelenka is looking ready to barf, and Kusanagi is murmuring over some data results which have nothing to do with the ship; no, a murmur of  _white dwarf_  – 

“What’s going on?”

“There was a Wraith, sir,” Markham says. Carefully serious and his finger rests on the trigger of the P90, the barrel hot; “It was in a pod. Looks like it had taken the place of a crewmember; we found the body. Dex took care of it. We pulled you out of there, wasn’t sure if it would cause any damage. Good to see you’re fine, sir.”

“Thanks but –”  _Wraith._  “Oh, so that’s why I got that weird vibe from her,” he mutters, and the frowns deepen: forcing him to explain the statement. “The second-in-command. Caelia. That’s got to have been the Wraith.”

“That’s all nice and dandy,” growls Yamato, “but could we get to the point about the exploding fucking star, please.”

John stands up, gathers his gear. Zips up his TAC vest again. Just in case, because the mere whisper of  _Wraith_  sets him on edge. But this … is new. “Exploding star?” 

“The white dwarf we’re orbiting, the one that’s feeding off its sister red giant, is about to go supernova. Less than an hour to get out of here,” says Zelenka, looking up briefly from his computer. Stressed. No kidding. “The rate of carbon fusion is increasing exponentially at an immense speed. Working on calculations. We could attempt to fly out of here. I am not sure if it could survive a hyperspace jump, though, with the damage the ship has sustained.”

To get out of a stasis pod only to find out the star’s about to collapse –  _only in Pegasus._

Time to switch gears entirely. To forget about the communique and its missing intel, about Ephesia and her cryptic fading last words;

“Wouldn’t the shield keep the ship’s integrity for a jump?”

“That is if we can keep the shield at a sufficient level and, right now, that is doubtful. There may be damage to systems we are unaware of, and have no time to assess any of it properly,” Grodin says.

“But it’s worth a shot,” John says, insists, and this would be the point, on a normal mission with AR-1, that he and Rodney would argue about it for about five seconds before agreeing on a common plan which involved getting both the team and the ship out of here in one piece because that’s what they would do: seek survival and also seek to gain as much from a mission as possible. More information; a  _potentia;_  a Warship. But this is not a normal mission; this isn’t AR-1.

He shares a look with Teyla and Kanaan. They square their shoulders. Put their trust in him and his judgment, but not blindly. “How long would an attempt to start the engines take?” she asks.

Rodney, Rodney would throw out a number on a dice – ten or fifteen minutes, the standard answer to any problem; Dr Zelenka shrugs uncertainly. “I would like to say half an hour, but … we  _don’t know_.”

An hour. They’ve got an hour. Plenty of time –

“Let’s try it.”

They always  _try._

* * *

The Bridge, so empty, greets them silently and the generator is already partially connected. Work abandoned when he put himself in stasis and they found that Wraith – which they still haven’t figured out how it got here. No Dart or other Wraith craft was in the Hangar, and those ships don’t have cloaking capabilities. If a ship dropped it off, more Wraith could be on their way.

 _Gathering intel_ , John understands, detachedly. Will write it in the report later. That’s why the Wraith went through all that trouble of infiltrating the Aurora’s systems instead of simply physically scourging the ship or blowing it up. The hyperdrive modifications the second-on-command was talking about – the Wraith want to develop their own to travel faster, into deeper territories. What better way to learn than to work side-by-side with Ancients with their machines? So that they one day could reach Terra;

The radiation levels are rising, and soon enough the hull of the Warship will not offer enough protection. The clock is ticking. There’s too much interference to get an accurate reading from the sensors, both the Aurora’s an the Jumpers’ – if a ship or something else is approaching from beyond the system, there’s no way to pick it up until it’s right on the doorstep.

He wants to give Ephesia and her crew a chance. To Ascend, they need time. If just minutes, or hours – time. They won’t have that if the Warship is taken by the nuclear storm of a star exploding: looks so small, from out here, yet intensely bright, and astronomically speaking the Aurora’s orbit is hanging mere millimeters from the binary star’s gravitational center. Too close.

“How’s it coming, docs?”

John is already sitting in the chair, mentally connected to the ship’s computer, sees the engines, feels the flow of power, and Grodin flicks the button, turning up the naquadah generator’s output. Edge of controlled overload. The Aurora’s own power source – yet undetermined – is focused on powering the pods and lifesupport. Nothing reaches the engines until now, and John thinks: _show me_ _schematic and data:_ the screens fill with data logs and diagrams. Outputs and inputs, and now, finally, they glimpse if there’s anything wrong with the engines. If a jump is even possible.

“Do you … ?” A vague question. The scientists crowd the consoles, trying to do the work of a tenfold larger crew;

“Yes, yes. Activate the –” Miko nods; leaving the sentence half-finished, her fellow scientists understanding anyway what she meant.

“Nine percent shield capability,” Grodin advises. The engineer’s voice steady despite the pressing danger and the stress. Not the first time he’s been so close to harm, though; he and Rodney went to patch up the Lagrangian Point Satellite, managed to destroy a Hive with it. “Power output ninety-one percent. Generator is stable …”

The marines are loading up the rest of their supplies. Would help if they had the technical skills to do it, but they don’t dare interfere; don’t want to blow the ship up by mistake. Markham is starting up the Jumpers, going through pre-flight hurriedly. If all goes to hell, they’ll have a minute to escape, barely. Could remain inside the Aurora with the Jumpers’ shields to maximum and everything else powered down;

Nine percent.  _Is that enough?_

Data slips by, and the Aurora isn’t meant to attempt jumping without at least twelve percent of shield. The hull could break apart, scattering the pieces of the ship in half a dozen star systems, lost forever. 

There’s too much interference to hail the City by comms. But John focuses, again: tries – maybe the star, and not just the distance, is the reason why Her voice is so utterly faint. Relies abstract thoughts and impressions rather than words, hopes that She will be able to transmit and translate them and let Major Lorne and MacGrimmon, back in the City, know what’s happening out here. They were meant to check in half an hour ago. The City could be trying to hail them in this moment and get no reply.

“Reading damage to one relay.”

“If we reroute the –”

“– yes, yes, on it.”

“Sensors indicate another peak of carbon fusion.” Warnings: a klaxon is going off in the background, red blinking lights,  _danger danger danger_ , and their own radios are being blocked out by the noise, the invisible noise they cannot see or feel, but John’s senses the tremble, like punch trying to knock out his teeth: the ship is strained.  _Too close._  The route is still being calculated. The ship somehow fighting it; as if knowing this could end them all.

Teyla returns to the Bridge at a running pace. The doors are open. “We could not hail you from the Jumper,” she says. “Will we be able to make the jump? Markham tells me the Puddlejumpers are behaving …  _oddly,_ ” the word carefully chosen, “and he fears flight may be difficult.”

Kusanagi nods, shakily. “If we leave it must be now.”

(the Jumpers aren’t fast enough. they won’t be: John understands it. it was too late even before. even at top speed, there’s no way a Jumper could clear the hundreds lightyears of distance necessary to flee the blast)

John, splitting is focus for half a second, asks (a brief candle of hope he doesn’t really dare believe in but it’s not like they haven’t overcome the impossible before) – “Can’t we ride it out?”

“No no no, you don’t understand,” says Zelenka frantically. “Once it passes the Chandrasekhar limit, the star will release an excess of ten to the power of forty-four joules in the matter of  _seconds,_  and literately be torn apart on a molecular level. The shock wave will destabilize the ship, and most likely the whole system, taking all the planets and  _us_ with it – and if that doesn’t kill us the radiation certainly will. The shield will not be able to cope with such stress. We have to leave  **now**.”

Time. time. time.

_no time to enter through a pod and warn the crew,  
to tell Ephesia that she should say her final goodbyes;_

Atlantis has heard the frantic message: and there’s an impression, of activity, of Major Lorne and Corporal MacGrimmon and the rest of them, waiting, tense, not sure if they were lost. A rescue party being prepared to be sent within the hour, attempting to catch up. And John thinks:  _no, no, don’t go here, there’s a star about to explode_

“Doc, should I try the jump or not?”

A computer pings. Calculations complete. They won’t jump far; to the next couple of systems over. In interstellar terms like leaping over the fence to visit a neighbor; shouldn’t take more than twelve minutes.

And the scientists look at each other, a final debate. If they’re wrong about this …

A nod. “Shields are at nine percent,” Grodin says. “That’s all we’re going to get. Powering down nonessentials.”

“All right. Everyone, strap yourselves in! This might get bumpy.”

John visualizes the opening of a hyperspace window, the cleaving of space. The Aurora groans and trembles under his hands, slightly unwilling, aware of the danger, far too aware. Radiation levels are rising, and there is no sound in space, no sound, and on the edge there is a bright flare: rising; the white dwarf has reached its critical point. The expansion takes the fraction of a second, and John directs the Aurora into hyperspace:

**jump**

* * *

_a star exploding is beautiful thing. light, across wavelengths which human eyes cannot detect, spreads out. patterns of art. luminosity surpassing nearly everything else in the observable universe for half a second;_

_the Aurora could not see it, but a Hiveship approaches the system in that moment, to find their dead companion, unaware of its demise. the flare cuts through the ship and breaks it apart;_

* * *

_jump;_

* * *

The blue light envelopes them, and John exhales, shakily. Twice in a day. Shy’s wings are pressed close to their body, as if to make themself smaller, less vulnerable. The klaxon is still blaring, but silences after half a minute.

As one, they begin to move again. With uncertain hands, Zelenka pulls himself free from the seat he found, loosening the belt. At least the Ancients had a though to install those in case of emergencies. Not that they would help much during a crash. Gets to his feet, along with the others. Grodin releases a laugh of pure relief.

This would be the time when Rodney would exclaim  _I can’t believe that worked!_  and leap to defend the statement a minute later, explaining that of course he knew it would work because he’s a genius he’s always right -

John pushes the thought aside. Turns the chair and activates his radio. “Everyone all right?”

No interference anymore. Markham reports back from the Hangar:  _“Sound and safe, sir. Did we just jump, or…?”_

“Yeah. We’re already quite a bit away from the system.” A glimpse of numbers; they are moving faster than light. The Aurora’s computer managing somehow to comprehend his way of measuring speeds thanks to the neural link giving him control, translating: “Twenty-one parsecs.”

Not quite a minimum safe distance, but getting there.

“Is there a possibility the Stargate on P29-814 survived?” Teyla asks curiously, she and Kanaan approaching the large broken windshield, past the consoles. It is filled with brilliant light, the Warship travelling through subspace at immense speed. Not top speed, though. Couldn’t get that working. Too much uncertain damage.

It’s enough to escape.

“Possibly. We have found the Gates to be extremely resilient to things from nuclear explosions to superheated plasma,” says Kusanagi, distracted, slightly comfortingly. “Perhaps it’s still there.”

The ship is protesting, has had enough. Another alarm goes off; a shudder travels through the length of the ship. The shield’s giving away, and they’re losing speed. If they don’t drop out –

“Losing power!” Grodin warns. Checking the naquadah generator, which is not enough. If they dial it up more, it’ll reach critical and destabilize, tearing them apart.

“The shield …!” Kusanagi gasps. “It’s destabilizing. Eight point three percent -”

 _[This can’t be how we die],_  Shy decides.

“Dropping out of hyperspace,” John says, eyes unblinking. Takes effort to remain linked with the ship and in control. There’s more than a mental component to it, and, hadn’t he been a well-trained pilot used to multitasking - some choppers requires you to use both your hands and feet - he doesn’t think he could’ve managed. Constant rearing data, and they attempt a calculation but there’s no time, they can’t wait. Hopes for the astronomical odds to hold, so that they won’t crash into a star or planet or asteroid –

The Aurora exits subspace right into the void between star systems. No planets, no asteroids, no comets out here. Only a sparse few rouges, far-away. No crashing. He dares to breathe: it worked. But at a distance, already faint, with a gas cloud surrounding it expanding rapidly, is the supernova they’d left behind. Like a final uneven breath, the Aurora falls back into spacetime and stills, engines powering down. 

“We have a leaking power conduit,” warns Zelenka. “And at least a dozen other issues.”

But they’re alive. The main point.  _Got to count as a win,_  John thinks;  _we’re alive._

Dex and the marines have returned to join them at the bridge at this point. Rutherford says, anxiously: “We’re not going to explode, though? right?” (please say no)

“The likelihood of that is low. Five or seven percent chance, maybe.” The Czech pushes his glasses further up his nose - they’d nearly fallen off during the turbulent execution of the hyperspace jump – Dæmon fluttering nervously nearby. Adrenaline rush still high.

A grimace. Not very reassuring odds – the marine, as would they all, would’ve preferred to hear a ‘none’ or ‘zero’. The man turns to John, vaguely: “Sir, is every AR-1 mission like this?”

Teyla smiles, knowingly, and answers for the both them. “No, Lieutenant, not all of our missions are this exciting.”

* * *

It takes some time to patch up the comms systems enough to send an encrypted message to Atlantis. Carefully. Don’t want the Wraith to detect them. Out here, without shields or weapons, and barely functioning lifesupport, the Warship slowly dying, they’re a blind target.

It’s going to take a large team of engineers and scientists to piece the ship back together into functioning order. And there’s the issue of the one hundred and one Ancients in stasis as well. With the power cells so taxed and nearly depleted, it’s only a matter of time before the pods fail and the virtual environment shuts down entirely. Their bodies will die, sooner or later.

 _“Want us to open the Gate to the SGC, sir?”_  asks Major Lorne, the subspace burst reaching the City in as close to real-time as it can be. They’re going to want to know about this.

Rodney is going to want to know.

“Tell them our options are limited. There’s no way we can move this bucket anywhere without breaking it,” John says. “We’re on the edge of a system and we’re not reading any activity - no Wraith ships.”

No stars, no planets. No gravity well has caught them, created a new orbit. They are adrift.

_“What about the one you found onboard? Was it alone?”_

“As far as we can determine. We have to sweep the rest of the ship. There’s no sign of any Dart or other means they came onboard – my guess is it was dropped off by a Cruiser or Hive to do some stealth work. We’ll be on the lookout. Nothing on the sensors, though. We’ll let you know if that changes.”

They’ve already switched off all beacons and anything else that might give them away. This conversation, too, must be kept short to minimize the risk of detection.

_“Understood. We have two teams on stand-by. Shall we send them?”_

“Delay that until we have word from Dr Weir.”

_“Yes, sir. We’ll get back to you once we do. Atlantis out.”_

“Copy. Sheppard out.” He switches off the commlink, turning to the rest of them. The docs are busy, again, tinkering away. Grodin is checking the naquadah generator, but its levels are steady. Handled it well enough, though the risk of burning out the generator was very close to reality.

High time for a meal and a victory toast.

* * *

The MREs and powerbars aren’t much to shout joy for, nor is the bland water from the canisters. Kusanagi brought some cookies, though, carefully stored rations, baked with ingredients bought offworld, sweet specialties which the cooks have made up without pre-recognized recipes. They’re immensely popular in the City, and Miko kindly shares with the rest of them, even pieces. And Zelenka brought coffee, loads of it, clearly anticipating the needs of not just his fellow scientists but also the marines. John takes a mug gladly and more or less inhales the hot beverage.

As they eat, the scientists vividly discuss the probabilities of fixing the ship. If it’s even doable. With their limited resources and personnel, the lack of spare parts, the gaps of knowledge about Ancient tech - though the City would of course help out with that … The job will be hard, difficult, huge. Take so much time. But they’ll gladly do it because even one Warship could help in the fight against the Wraith. They wouldn’t be reliant on the Daedalus to go to places where the Stargates don’t reach.

Their words move around and over and past him, and John considers the pods. The crew. They’ve got to be told what’s happened, eventually; the Captain, least, must be given the chance to explain to her crew. Explain that they must Ascend or die. Because, because the thing is, they cannot keep the pods leeching power from the ship forever; they must be shut down. Right now, as the Aurora is slowly slowly failing, that has to be sooner rather than later.

Thinks of it; the loneliness, the uncertainty; being stuck for ten thousand years, enough time to  _forget_  about reality …

Can’t imagine it. Doesn’t want to, to be honest.

Such a lonely existence. 

(a place without time)

* * *

Nineteen hours later, a signal has been established with the SGC, routed via the Gate in Atlantis, and John reports from a PDA in Jumper One in relative privacy. Zelenka and Grodin are leading a team of scientists and engineers each to examine one section of the ship at a time on foot, relying on the internal scans which have already been done. At first glance, it looks rather bad. Even closer up: worse. The Aurora hasn’t suffered mere scrapes and bruises. 

While waiting, they’d taken turns sleeping in the Jumpers, at least one scientist awake at all times to monitor the ship. John, exhausted, hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Spent time acting guard and walking ATA-gene in the Bridge instead, helping out with turning systems on and off when required. Doing everything possible to preserve power.

“ … and roughly thirty percent of the hull is completely exposed to space, whole compartments vented,” John rounds off the statistics; Rodney, on the other side, is taking notes rapidly while Elizabeth nods, frowning. Cracked crystals and leaking power conduits are just the tip of the iceberg. “We need more spacesuits to be able to access half a dozen maintenance hatches in those areas.”

The Lanteans – fourteen scientists, and three marines who all have the ATA-gene -– have arrived carrying more equipment and tools, one spacesuit, and one of the City’s  _potentiae._  Turns out the Aurora runs on one, and it’s nearly depleted from supporting the pods for so long. Sooner or later the pods need to be disconnected and the virtual reality ( _the term is ‘virtual environment’,_  Rodney had impatiently corrected) shut down. But for now it’s left online in the background while the scientists take a first extensive look at the damage to estimate how long it’s going to take to repair the Warship.

Answers have ranged from an optimistic outlook of five months to the more pessimistic five years.

Plus, the compact neutron star being created by the supernova is still so close that the shields are constantly taxed from the onslaught of gamma radiation. The boost from the  _potentia_  helps a lot, but the distance between it and them – two and a half thousand light years; a tiny blink in the continuum – is not enough. The Aurora drifts away, slowly, slowly. The engines shut down.

 _“What about the hyperdrive?”_   Rodney asks, briefly looking up from his PDA. They don’t dare transmit raw data, even in encrypted compressed form, in case someone uninvited picks up the subspace transmission. No numbers; just words. It’ll have to do until Rodney and the others return and can take a look in person.

“We haven’t gotten to the engines yet in detail, but even if they turn out to be fine, the ship’s integrity is simply too unstable right now to attempt a jump.”

 _“Too bad,”_  Elizabeth murmurs. Right now, the Aurora hangs in the void between star systems, vulnerable, too easily picked up. They’re working on patching the cloaking generator from one of the Jumpers into the ship, though, like with Atlantis. Just in case. It would mean dropping the shield though, leaving the ship free to be flooded with deadly radiation. The Warship would need to be evacuated before deactivating the cloak. The nearest Stargate is twelve hours away at top speed. Not making ferrying people back and forth an easily casual thing to do.  _“And the crew?”_

“Still in stasis,” John confirms. He’d mentioned, in the preliminary written report forwarded by Major Lorne and MacGrimmon in the City to the SGC, the Captain and the plans, the loss of data, deleted by the Wraith. That’s probably the first thing the Wraith did when they found the ship: infiltrated the system, unable to hack into the computers from the outside due to their lack of an ATA-gene. So a Wraith had killed a crewmember, taken her place, and set out to destroy the ship from within, gathering intel in the process.

If the Wraith managed to telepathically communicate to any fellow Wraith about its findings, they can’t be sure. The sensors didn’t detect any ships, Wraith or otherwise, in the vicinity but the white dwarf turned supernova could have interfered too much to get an accurate reading. They can’t be sure. Have to be constantly on their guard.

And John knows, he told the Captain and the Wraith masquerading as Caelia must have heard: that Atlantis is no longer on Lantea. Not a definite truth, that the Cityship is still standing but on a new planet. Could be interpreted as the Wraith are meant to believe it, that the City self-destructed. A few survivors managing to flee through the Gate;

“They haven’t got much choice but to either Ascend or die,” he goes on, “because once the original  _potentia_  is depleted – and that’ll be pretty soon – the pods will shut down, and there’s no way their bodies will survive outside of them.”

 _“Are they aware of the situation?”_ General Landry wonders. The General isn’t dressed in sharp dress blues or uniform; much more casually, a dark leather jacket. Drinking coffee from a cup. It seems the General prefers a more relaxed approach a lot of the time.

John nods. “I spoke with the Captain, Ephesia, and she seemed to understand. I’m willing to go in there once more, now that we’re sure the Wraith aren’t tampering with the system anymore. There could be some more intel they could give us.”

 _“Which would be very welcome,”_  adds Weir, nodding. Rodney finally pauses in his note-taking, and scratches Meredith behind her ears, thoughtfully;

_“As long you don’t get stuck in there.”_

“Thanks, McKay, I won’t.”

 _“Report back in forty-eight hours,”_  General Landry sharply instructs.

“Understood, sir.”

_“SGC out.”_

The image flickers and disappears as the Stargate connection is cut, and instead there’s the Control Room, the usual activity, and Major Lorne steps into view very briefly.  _“An estimation of when you’ll be back, sir?”_  the Major asks. He could be the one out here, John knows; should be, actually, since Lorne is now XO – only temporarily, maybe, in Ford’s absence, but still. He should be the one out here, and John the one back in the City, holding the reigns as Commander. 

“Hard to say right now. I’ll know once the first sweep’s been done,” John says, not adding aloud: he has a conversation to finish. “We’ll let you know.”

_“Copy that. Atlantis out.”_

Silence falls, and John puts down the PDA, stretches and yawns. It’s been a long, long day. Hasn’t slept in thirty hours. Yeah, once he’s had a word with Captain Ephesia, it’s high time for some shut-eye. It’s a wonder Zelenka and the other docs are going as fast and strong as they are. Coffee boosts. And the general excitement of exploring an Ancient Warship, rich in knowledge and technology, beaten up as it is.

He could tell them:  _time to go._

A sad outlook, somehow. To bear the news that they have no choice, they can’t live within the virtual environment forever. Have to let go of life. The Expedition will push them out, have no other choice if they mean to salvage the Aurora and make her fly once more.

A final toast and not to victory.

And he will ask the Captain what she meant about the Merged, the City speaking. If she knows more, even a glimpse of knowledge, would make them understand. And if she knew more about the limits of the Bond, if perhaps there is a chance of it not being a deadly danger for him to step outside the galaxy’s boundaries … Not that he has much of a desire to do so, but it’d be nice to know for certain.

* * *

Discarding his TAC vest, but keeping his 9mil in its thigh holster, he exits Jumper One and heads for the corridor where they’d found the empty pod. Still hooked up to a computer and the wires, the Terran technology managing to create a seam so they can monitor it from the outside. But he’s not even reached the wide Hangar doors when his earpiece crackles.

 _“Major, we’re reading an unexpected energy surge.”_  Radek. Sounds befuddled, as if it doesn’t add up.

 _[Oh, not again.]_  Last time, less than an hour ago, the naquadah generator almost blew but the cavalry had arrived in the nick of time and they’d plugged in the  _potentia,_  stemming off the incoming catastrophe before it could occur.

John’s feet break into a swift jog. “Where’s it located?”

 _“The pods. All … all of them. Wait, wait_ – _the system is shutting down! The pods are powering down. All of them,”_  repeats the scientist. John turns the corner, nearly running smack into Lance Corporal Gladys, who’s on patrol duty in this part of the ship. Others are being assembled, tools dropped on the floor. If the ship’s about to go critical –

They reach the corridor, and the pods are going dark, one by one. The once brightly turquoise light, beautiful like specks of stars, blink out. One after the other. And then: a new kind of light, and abruptly John realizes. Captain Ephesia must have told her crew the truth, managed to convince them. And they’ve taken control of the system from within, a major effort, and made their choice.

“We can patch the –” Kusanagi starts asking, kneeling next to the empty open pod earlier used, PDA in her lap. Ready to type a command.

“Wait,” John orders, abruptly;

The white light. He knows it intimately but has never seen it like this before, from the outside.

(is this what Rodney and the others saw when he nearly died in the Chair, those weeks and weeks ago?)

A hundred and one individual sources, a hundred and one rising souls. For a second the light is so intense they have to avert their gaze, cover their faces like shields, but Shy stares unblinkingly letting them See, and John doesn’t dare breathe. Once the corridor is clear again, all the pods are completely dark, and there is no reading, nothing. Radek reports: The energy has dissipated.

John takes a step forward. The pod closest is empty, as is the next, and the next, and the next;

“What … what just happened?” Gladys asks, blinking. Kusanagi stands up carefully and puts down her PDA as there’s no longer any data indicating any kind of activity. Conversation has ceased.

“They Ascended.” John exhales. “They’re gone.”

 _[We didn’t get the answer],_  Shy whispers;

Ephesia never completed her sentence.


	9. intermission of grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(the momentum of time)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**ix.**

# intermission of grace

_(the momentum of time)_

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil _  
> __to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-11-21 09:00 GTM-7 (13:40 Standard Atlantis Time) _  
> __subject:_ Databurst 13
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Work with the Aurora is moving forward. She’s in pretty bad shape, but momentum has carried her out of the deadliest range of the neutron star now, so the shields aren’t constantly bombarded with gamma radiation. Well, other than the usual background noise.
> 
> I’ve attached a couple of files, and I’m sure you’ve gotten plenty of emails from Zelenka et al too – there’s this lifesupport power node which is in dire need of repairing and there’s a lot of debate about how to go about it. Take a look at the specs, will you? We’ve had to cannibalize a number of crystals from a few of the Jumpers we found. Not exactly a perfect fit. While you’re so extremely non-busy over there, why not figure out a way to reverse-engineer these things?
> 
> But we have a  _Warship._  That’s – that’s pretty cool, actually. Always wanted to be Han Solo as a kid. And the Aurora is so much cooler than the Millennium Falcon. But it’ll be just our luck if we end up losing it in battle first thing. Once it’s flyable, that is.
> 
> Sometimes I wonder what the Captain was going to tell me … I’ve been looking for references in the City’s database, but the answers are vague at best. It’s almost as if She’s reluctant to tell me, or it’s just that She’s always so cryptic that when the info is limited, well … Maybe it’s in there somewhere. Maybe.
> 
> Anyway, not much else to add. No interesting missions are going on and we’re focused on the Aurora’s paint job. Harvest time on Te’reem is coming up and I’m thinking of sending AR-9 to handle it this season, they’ve never been there before; think they need some softening up, all their other missions have tended to involve Wraith one way or another. Would be nice for them not to be shot at for a change.
> 
> Speaking of which, going out to the Aurora is really a nice change to all this sitting around. I’ve got a whole new respect for Elizabeth, managing to wait behind all the time while the teams go out there seeing most of the action. Remind me not to ever agree on acting Commander of a base again, because the paperwork load is just about enough to drown me, and I’m running out of folks to push it on.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_  

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ _  
> __to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-11-26 10:14 GTM-7 (14:04 Standard Atlantis Time) _  
> __subject:_ re: Databurst 13
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Mer and I attended a lecture on temporal quantum dynamics. Very interesting but half of it is wrong, of course, though they had a couple of good notions there. I send them some revised notes on the subject –”
> 
> [Meredith, loudly:] “Bear in mind this means two hundred pages with footnotes.”
> 
> “Yes, well, there were some glaring errors which they ought to’ve been ashamed of. Never underestimate what my brain can produce. And the man calls himself a theoretical physicist! hmphf! Even your flyboy brain would’ve noticed. I wish at these times that the SGC wasn’t such a hugely American governmental secret and so hush hush so I could show them the reality of the situation, such as when it comes to artificial manipulation of spacetime. 
> 
> Are you aware how frustrating it is not to be able to publish anything revolutionary because of that damned non-disclosure agreement? Well, no, I doubt you have actually written a highly significant scientific paper in your life - I’m working on something now, something small and simple just because I’m tired of being assumed dead or having slipped into an alcohol-induced coma by my fellow astrophysicists. Tyson had the nerve to call me practically dead in social media! The gall! Just because he’s so famous even outside the proper circles – as if I haven’t been close enough to being practically dead enough times on this job!”
> 
> “But we’ll show them.”
> 
> “Oh, yes. Pity I can’t include any of the newest gathered data on Einstein-Rosen bridges –
> 
> Oh! the specs. Yes, I’ve taken a look, very fascinating, the Ancient’s design especially of the modular hyperdrive engines. Makes me wonder if we could adapt something similar for the Jumpers, would be much more practical if we’re going longer distances for missions and the Gate malfunctions - not that Gates should, mind, but luck (even if there is truly no such thing as ‘luck’) tells me that we might need it one day. Radek’s work was edging on sloppy, like always, but workable, I’ve already sent him an email to notify him of the most annoying predicaments and what could be done better. Looking at the data I’d say we are a sad long way from having the Aurora fully operational but once we’re back things should be sped up.
> 
> Talks are coming to a closure here. We’re all reviewing personnel fires like life depends on it, and Elizabeth and Beckett are working on their lists. I assume Ford’s already notifying you about every marine addition so I’m not going to bother to care.
> 
> Oh, and you know Caldwell wants your job? Just a warning, because apparently you have obedience issues? and I saw your file so, yes, possibly; but the military is frankly one mess after the other and I may have told General Landry as much. Didn’t care much for that … But Bates and Weir managed to be convincing enough. Apparently the SGC don’t trust a Canadian astrophysicist’s opinion and judgement as much as theirs when it comes to these things. Preposterous. Oh, O’Neill popped in again. Something about talks ruining his day at the Pentagon. SG-1 is still virtually nonexistent as the new poster boy keeps chucking potential candidates out left and right, and Carter isn’t back, a pity, she’s out with the Prometheus on some recon mission. Something about Goa’uld activity on PX4-666.
> 
> Technically haven’t used more than a couple of days off my free time. At this rate we could go to a lecture a week without issue. There’s this very interesting one at Harvard coming up about quantum computing but without the Prometheus getting there will take hours and I’m not certain I could bear to suffer through the flight – no doubt we’ll have some bad allergic reaction because people always bring peanuts and citrus lemonade and whatever unmentionable else …
> 
> [scrolls through contents on laptop] But look here - The Mathematics of Relativity; mostly the basic stuff, hmm … but it’s Tyson, oh, this ought to be good. Maybe we’d go just to be an eyesore. Tuesday … doable, let’s see, IOA or Tyson, whom to annoy most …”
> 
> [Rodney starts murmuring to himself, apparently forgetting about the recording still rolling. The image flickers our abruptly, obviously edited afterward]
> 
> _(recording ends)_   

* * *

> _from:_  a_ford@sgc.mc.mil _  
> __to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-11-26 07:55 GTM-7 (11:45 Standard Atlantis Time) _  
> __subject:_ Databurst 15, re: review candidates
> 
> Major Sheppard,
> 
> Sgt Bates and I have finished selecting the candidates based on interviews and tests. 38 marines in total have signed up, including three already formed recon teams.  Most are SGC veterans. Full files & other pertinent data attached to this email. Brass has cleared us extra supplies, including a number of M16s and launchers, real sweet stuff. Dr Weir has the rest of the details and told us she’s already briefed you. Daedalus’ lift-off is scheduled to December 6 at 0630 Zulu, ETA Jan 1 at 0500 Zulu.
> 
> See you then,
> 
> Lt Ford

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  2005-11-26 10:40 GTM-7 (14:30 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  Databurst 14
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Judging by the long-suffering emails we’ve received from both Ford and Bates and Beckett, guess you skipped that last IOA meeting to butt heads with your fellow scientists – hope you had fun. And please tell me no one’s after your neck for correcting their blatant errors? 
> 
> [abrupt silence]
> 
> I don’t know if we should be talking more about, you know. It’s been over nine weeks, and we haven’t … talked. Bit difficult over this distance but. Wow, zero to awkward. Uhm. You know – I don’t regret what happened, and I want this to work, and, well, well I want to try and talk about it to know we’re on the same wavelength. Just, let me know.
> 
> Because, because I don’t regret it. You have the right to because with Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, I know we can’t be open with it, and it’s going to be tough and difficult –
> 
> Just let me know?”
> 
> _(recording ends)_  

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  _to:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-11-30 10:40 GTM-7 (14:30 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Databurst 14
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “Let’s get past this stage of awkwardness and simply admit we’re both terrible at … talking emotions, and emotions in general, because we are. All right, now  _that’s_  done …
> 
> _Regret it?_  No, why would …? I thought we had this conversation seventy-one days ago and the only regret I’ve got is that your extremely repressed military regulations, they’re practically medieval and honestly right-up stupid and the only regret I’ve got is that you’ve got to follow those fearing to be sacked – surely you won’t, though, I mean, Elizabeth won’t have you demoted! Admittedly Atlantis hasn’t reached any especial heights of equality yet, it’s not like we’ve got our on parade, but she and Carson are both pushing for it and so are loads other people in the City and you know it. We’ve just been busy fighting the Wraith and generally not dying. Let’s change that, huh?
> 
> As if I could regret it!
> 
> You may be some flyboy with questionable sense of self-preservation, but you’re a damned good kisser.
> 
> [pause]
> 
> I still can’t believe you didn’t notice all the natives flirting with you. You’re being ridiculous.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_  

* * *

Relief makes him laugh. The message is so, so  _Rodney_  and comforting and real. The thoughts have weighed on his mind for so long without him being able to put them to words. Almost couldn’t this time either but did manage to press  _send,_  and Rodney responds as if reading his mind. Weaving familiarity and fondness with those insults. John smiles at the screen for a moment, at the moving images and Rodney’s voice a warm flood in his ears. When the message is ended, he mutes the computer and removes the headphones. In the lab again; hadn’t dared to view this particular email in Weir’s Office.

It’s close to midnight, and he considers his reply. Doesn’t initiate a recording yet, though. Takes a look around the lab. He’s spent more hours in here in lonely silence than he can bother to count, he and Shy, waiting, waiting. Normality can’t return soon enough.

Before they can make a move, the City’s internal comms call his name. It’s one of the Gate technicians. “Unscheduled offworld activation!”

_Another day._

Casting a final look at the computer where Rodney’s encrypted message is hidden, John walks out of the lab, the Raven on his shoulder. His steps are light.

* * *

The usual activity is in control of Stargate Operations, and a squad of marines are spread out in front of the active wormhole. The iris is up, a shield. John’s there in record time. This could be anything: an ally’s call for help, an AR-team coming in hot – AR-9 is on a relief mission, and AR-6 is exploring a distant moon. The repair crew on the Aurora isn’t due to check in yet. But no one is stepping through;

“It’s AR-2 from the Alpha Site,” Chuck reports from his console station as John and also Corporal MacGrimmon, called to the Gate room as Acting Head of Security, approach. Major Lorne is quick to join them, abandoning a session in the gym; he and his Dæmon are a bit out of breath, and the Major has a towel slung over his shoulders. Not a man to lightly drop protocol or appear too casual, this might a step in the right direction, John thinks briefly, watching the ease with which the Major moves and even receives a couple of hellos from people at work; slowly, slowly becoming part of the fold.

A video feed is live on one of the screens, and Lieutenant Olsen is standing in front of the MALP. He’s frowning. _“Sir,”_ he says, a greeting. _“Approximately twenty minutes ago we got word from an ally on Balkan about someone requesting an audience with Dr Weir or, well, the leader of Atlantis. It’s … it’s the Genii, sir.”_

And the words cause John to freeze in mid-step, disbelieving. Like a punch to the gut. “The Genii?”

 _Can’t be._  The Genii called them traitors; the Genii attacked the City, flooded it like water in the wildness of the Storm and they killed two marines -

Can’t be.

_“Yes, sir. A guy named Cowen wants to talk. He claims they want to negotiate a peace treaty …”_

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_ drE_weir@sgc.sd.civ; drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-12-04 06:58 GTM-7 (11:58 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: re: Databurst 16 N.B. Genii contact
> 
> Dr Weir,
> 
> Cowen, the leader of the Genii, contacted us via an ally on Balkan less than an hour ago. Apparently he wishes to offer an olive branch and make a peace treaty. He claims that Acastus Kolya belonged to an outlying faction of ’rebels’, and that his actions have nothing to do with the rest of the Genii. Whether he speaks the truth remains to be seen. I’m ready to send a team to meet the Genii ambassadors on a neutral location for negotiations.  Cowen’s goals seem to be to make us ’allies’, or at least to move away from the current state of Cold War. He wouldn’t say much more.
> 
> I don’t know, to be honest, if many in the City will accept an alliance because of what happened in the past but to turn them away would surely make things worse, and the last thing we need is an openly declared conflict. Whatever decision we make
> 
> Unsure if they’ve actually got a nuke at this point in time or not, or if weapons are still in development. If they do have nukes, they would be a real threat. Ought we risk that by offering scientific assistance?
> 
> Please advise how we should proceed.
> 
> \- Maj. J. Sheppard

* * *

> _from:_  drE_weir@sgc.sd.civ   
>  _to:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-12-04 17:21 GTM-7 (22:21 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: re: Databurst 16 N.B. Genii contact   
>  _(2 files attached)_
> 
> Major Sheppard,
> 
> I have uttermost faith in your abilities to handle this. Based on past experiences, I have assembled a rough first draft you can use as a basis for negotiations. You should meet with Cowen in person and hear him out, try to judge his character and whether he is being honest. You are right; we cannot afford more dissent if there’s anything to be done about it. 
> 
> We must keep the City’s state a secret. Take the Genii ambassadors to the Alpha Site for the talks. Take Teyla along; she is a very good negotiator, and will offer a good link as a mediator. I am sure other independent Athosians such as Halling would be ready to act likewise if necessary to avoid conflict.  Our main goal should be an agreement of non-violence between our two peoples.  General Landry has been briefed and is in agreement that, if pressed, we may offer some scientific assistance, on the condition that any nuclear weapons will only be used against the Wraith and not against any human population.
> 
> Good luck,
> 
> \- Dr E. Weir 


	10. covenant, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the Genii were once a great Coalition of planets:_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**x.**

# covenant

**part one**

_the Genii were once a great Coalition of planets:_

* * *

**Base Camp, Atlantis Expedition Alpha Site (M99-108) · Pegasus**   
**73 days after the Uprising**

* * *

They send AR-4 to pick them up on an uninhabited moon.

The demand for a neutral location of initial contact is agreed upon and met; when John had forwarded the request to go to the Alpha Site, the Lanteans’ current base of operations, the Genii responded positively. The Genii, it seems at least at first glance, are willing to cooperate. To change things. John doesn’t quite dare believe; in fact, isn’t sure if he ever can. Not after what Acastus Kolya did. They come, Cowen, their leader and commander, followed by a man whom John recognizes, icily: wants to draw his weapon again; he drowns the instinct. Forces himself to be still. This is meant to be an opportunity of diplomacy and he can’t ruin that by putting a bullet in-between the man’s eyes. Instead, Cowen and his man and their Dæmons allow themselves to be led through the Gate to the Alpha Site.

Weir and the SGC had agreed that honesty is important, but keeping Atlantis’ well-being a secret even more so. Keep up the act that the City is vanished in smoke and dust after the harsh Siege; for the occasion, John makes sure that the Alpha Site is occupied not only by marines, but by civilians volunteering for the job – biologists and linguists and the likes mostly; Dr Heightmeyer, their phycologist, is also present in the background. Together building a tight illusion of life on M99-108. The majority of their engineers and physicists are busy repairing the Aurora, and this poses another problem, of course.

Major Lorne, having a fairly strong expression of the ATA-gene, has spent the past three days aboard the ship to help with understanding more about the ship’s commands which would only respond to the gene. MacGrimmon and his team are on the Alpha for this mission and to make sure that the Genii’s presence won’t stir up trouble. This means that, in their and John’s absence, the City is left with Corporal Hester in command, and the marine might’ve been nervous but accepted it with grace. It’ll be for only a couple of days at most. Major Lorne is simply too busy to be recalled, the work with the Aurora a priority. The faster they can tow that ship to New Lantea, the better.

(They’re very subtle about it but John knows none of the marines are happy about this. Unwilling, reluctant. Negotiations with the enemy unwelcome. The memory of the attack, the Storm, too close by; they don’t want this reminder of Jenkins and Miller dying, bleeding out on the Gate Room’s floor. The frost in the air when it’d been announced that the Genii have sent a message, not of surrender but a suggestion of peace – no one had said it aloud, but John could see it. 

This could end very, very badly.)

The Base Camp of the Alpha Site is busy and full of life, the barracks – mostly wooden structures, or built from other naturally occurring materials (the Athosians had been a great help in constructing them) – stacked with supplies and weaponry, with movement. Solar panels reflecting the cloudy day from atop of the roofs. They’ve been here for a while, built relentlessly, cleared the land after finding the optimal site, but despite the knowledge of their engineers and teamwork and help from the Athosians, it’s nowhere near complete. The fence - the only purely metal thing they’re constructed here, wrought around the edges of the camp – is incomplete, though some natural barriers, a ditch with a shallow stream and the crest of a hill in the south, they do help making them feel less exposed.

It’ll be weeks before the last buildings are complete and the electric fence up and running as it should be. Repairs of the Aurora have taken precedence. Despite this state of construction, the upturned mud not yet overgrown with grass, the Botany Department have already planted a small garden of footstuffs in the cover of a plastic greenhouse, things which grow quickly, and the soil is good here. It rains often enough and not too much. A month from now they’ll have their first small harvest. In case of an emergency, they’re meant to be able to evacuate here, live here, also in case the Gate malfunctions or is destroyed. A glum thought, but they’ve had to plan for contingencies.

A couple of AR-teams with downtime are on site going through the motions of exercises and drills in and around the immediate area. An illusion of a larger contingency. As they walk from the Gate to the encampment of barracks, escorted by MacGrimmon’s team, the two Genii look at the forest, the calm, and the Lanteans: appearing tired, a little haggard, but alive. Wounded but alive.

Cowen remarks that they hadn’t believed in the rumors of the City’s destruction, and that this truth truly shocks him. He looks at the Base Camp as if disdained that it’s not an illusion, that it’s touchable. Thought the Lanteans would be more powerful, hovering inside of the Ancient City and its shielded walls; not this.

 _Good,_  John thinks.  _Let them think we’re helplessly defenseless, Atlantis gone. Let them underestimate us._ Watching them in turn, assessing. Their previous contact with Cowen was brief and ended badly, at gun-point. Hopefully this time will be different. Hopefully.

They settle in Barrack Three which functions as a commissary, now hastily rearranged with one sizable table in the middle. Two chairs on either side; the two Genii on one, and John and Teyla on the other. She’s a much better, more experienced negotiator. She’ll make sure they don’t cut a bad deal.

Now the man’s companion is introduced: Ladon Radim. The man smiles pleasantly and offers words of forgiveness; “I was a fool, a loyal fool,” he says, referring back to the invasion during the great Storm. The inevitable recognition. He’s not one of Kolya’s men anymore.

 _No,_  Cowen explains; Ladon Radim is his trusted second-in-command, his right hand, his adviser. Part of the inner ring of the Genii’s political power. Did a turnabout sharply like a Sith seeing the Light and becoming a Jedi;

All of John’s instincts scream at him not to trust not to trust, not to take anything at face value.

“Ladon told me everything,” Cowen says gravely as they’ve taken seat. “It was unfortunate that Kolya’s rashness cost so many lives.”

Coldly detached.  _Unfortunate’s the word, huh,_  John thinks;

“Then you were unaware of his actions?” says Teyla, calm and even in her tone. Kanaan rests by her feet in an illusion of relaxation but he is, John’s certain, ready to pounce and defend his human if he has to. 

A shadow crosses Cowen’s face. “We had been aware of some time that Kolya was gathering people to him to form a Rebellion. They sought to undermine my command; I assume that the end goal was to replace me as the leader of our people. He was resourceful, utilizing offworld weapon caches which our civilization ensured to place strategically over the course of many generations.” The unsaid: in case the Wraith attacked and wiped their homeworld out. The Genii were once a great Coalition of planets. They must’ve been advanced – advanced enough to spread out, confidently, to attempt fighting back.

But unlike Sateda, their planets didn’t burn for it. At least not all of them. Some survived and they hid underground.

“How convenient for you that Kolya’s dead,” John says, carefully guarding his expression, just to see how Cowen will react.

(Kolya and sixty people, their names forgotten. John has tried not to linger on the fact that they, too, were human, with Dæmons and dreams.  
Tried to think: their goal was to burn the City and brand it as theirs, and that could never be allowed to happen, never be allowed to happen,  
that could never be allowed)

“Convenient perhaps in the short term. However, his faction has not been entirely wiped out. Some, such as Ladon, realized their mistake and turned back to their true selves.”

“And, let me guess, others didn’t.”

“No,” Cowen shakes his head. “A number managed to evade our attempts at finding them. You must understand that a Genii division is highly undesired. In the fight against the Wraith, we cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves.”

“A wise outlook, for the Wraith do not discriminate between human populations or groups,” Teyla agrees.

The first contact between the Genii and the Lanteans isn’t mentioned. The mistakes committed, on both sides. The nearly failed op, the infiltration of a Hive to get a crucial data device to monitor Wraith ships – but the Genii plan wouldn’t have worked; there’s no way their nukes are anywhere near ready yet for deployment. Been enough to take out all the ships at once. No, that hope laid years into the Genii future.

 _And then I woke the Wraith,_  the thought stabs him and John forcibly pushes it aside.

“The traitorous Rebels will be dealt with,” Cowen says confidently. “That is not primarily why we are here, though you should be aware. Kolya’s actions also further strained relations between our two peoples, but this could be a chance to change that. The truth is, in the struggle against the Wraith, the Genii cannot stand alone to be victorious. Kolya should not have been allowed to go so far as to attack your people.”

_should not have been allowed._

Not the City; not Atlantis; but the people. The wording is carefully chosen, a well-practiced speech. A script. It’s all a script, and that’s why John hates situations like these. He’s not a diplomat. He’s not a negotiator. He’s not like Elizabeth or Teyla; he’s a pilot. 

“And we appreciate that,” John answers. The lie tastes all wrong. Keeps a straight face – has to. “But what’s done is done. That can’t be changed.”

“The future is malleable,” Teyla says.

As far as both Cowen and Ladon Radim are aware, John’s Dæmon is so small it should fit in his pocket. Therefore, to keep up the illusion, and also because he’s in no mood to deal with stares or undue questions, Shy has taken to the skies. On the lookout from above, and will rest their wings on a rooftop of a barrack. Keep an eye on the Stargate in case Atlantis contacts them with an emergency.

Everyone on the Alpha Site know not to speak of the City in the present tense while the Genii are here. Preferably not at all. Kemp from AR-4 had, according to MacGrimmon, painted a very vivid story of the Expedition’s evacuation from the City to the Alpha Site:  _Sorry, sir, but I just couldn’t shut him up,_ MacGrimmon had apologized. But it might be to their advantage, as others are ready to back up Kemp’s only half-fake recollections. They  _were_  ready to evacuate – not to the Alpha Site but to Terra, but the Genii mustn’t know that. In fact, it’s better they never find out about Terra or the presence of human life in another galaxy. Nor the fact that the Daedalus has just taken off, finally headed toward Pegasus;

“I am curious why Dr Weir isn’t here to meet us.”

“Dr Weir is otherwise occupied with her duties,” Teyla answer smoothly. “We speak in her stead, with Major Sheppard as the Expedition’s second-in-command and military commander, and myself as an adviser.”

“I see,” says Cowen. Obviously not believing them, just as the Lanteans do not fully believe him; and therein lies the issue. There is no trust.

There will never be trust; not within this generation, at least. Possibly not for two or ten or a hundred generations.

Weir’s absence could be a problem, John knows. For her to leave her military commander to do the talking, it could be seen as slight and possible as if she doesn’t deem Cowen and the Genii worthy speaking to. To explain that she’s a galaxy away, the Daedalus not yet launched … well,  _that’s_  not going to happen. “Dr Weir has given me full authorization to write a treaty.”

“Then we should do so,” Cowen says.

(They don’t toast in wine this time.)

* * *

They lay out the terms on the table: what they want. The Genii claim they want peace. It’s not going to be a trading arrangement. At first, the Genii want support in the form of scientific advisement – a not too subtle euphemism for help to finish building their atomic weapons. There’s a possibility here, John carefully agrees. Elizabeth said the same in her email, responding to the possibilities and it was easy to foresee that the Genii would have a demand like that. And, they say, they require C4 or other powerful weaponry. That’s a flat-out no. The risk of it being used against them are too great.

It’s a start. These talk will take hours, and the finalizing of an actual document days. There’s the issue of language; the Gate matrix usefully translates speech without issue, but the Genii cannot read any Tau’ri language or vice versa. A compromise is settled: Ancient, or the Ancestral tongue as Teyla explains it as, is a piece of common ground. The Genii are not unfamiliar with it; the basis for their own writing system, deviated slowly over the course of millennia but yet viable. Radim is fairly adapt at reading it, and John admits fluency. Halling can be called in as an independent witness before anything’s signed. Dex, too. John’s fairy sure the guy is much cleverer than he lets on.

“It sounds like you already have plenty of weapons and ammo, with a steady rate of production,” John notes. Uses the ploy: “After the destruction of Atlantis, we don’t. What we’ve got here is all we’ve got, and we won’t part from a single bullet.”

Cowen considers this for a moment. “Then it seems to me that you are the ones in need, Major Sheppard. This,” a vague gesture of hand, “is not a very defensible position.”

Neither underground or an Ancient City. The Genii don’t know about the shield generator hidden in Barrack Nine, next to the sizable armory. John is going to keep it that way if he can. “We do our best.”

“Which is why you refused to show us the address to the Porta,” Ladon Radim nods. “Highly understandable, Major, but surely you must require more support.”

“We get by. Are you saying you’re willing to trade us a couple of nukes to fight the Wraith?” Not they’re so interested that it hurts. There’s no way the Genii weapons will be powerful, effective enough, for quite some time. And they’ve got support from Terra now.

“We have yet to finalize a weapon,” Cowen says, an edge of frustrated.

“Which is where our knowledge comes in,” John fills in. “We could help you with that; on the condition that no atomic or nuclear power is ever used against another human group or colony.”

A moment of thought. Ladon Radim nods, and Cowen says: “Highly reasonable. Our goal is to one day wipe out the Wraith, not harm any other humans.”

“Like our own goals,” John says. “The Wraith’s the enemy here. In return of that expertise, what’ve you got to offer us?”

“A promise of peace. We are very close to finding the last Rebels, and once they have been subdued, there will be no risk of your people ever again suffering at the hands of ours,” Cowen says and it sounds like a promise, far too good to be true. The way he says it, his eyes, like steel: no, his people are not close at all to finding the remnants of Kolya’s faction. Words are just words. “We could also offer a certain portion of the yield of our crop. It would be poorly of the Genii to leave a potential ally starving through winter.”

The Alpha Site is pretty cold this time of its year. The location not chosen for its sights but because it’s naturally a defensive position: the top of a flat hill, with a half-circling thin river slithering to the south side of it. They’ve started digging out a moat there. In conjunction with the shield, they could hold this place against a ground assault as well as by air; especially if aided by a Jumper or two and their drones. On the outside, the Base Camp looks terrifyingly fragile, though: shacks of metal and stone and wood, gathered local materials, spread out under the sun. Marines running in circles on the beaten paths, patrolling the perimeter. Some civilians scattered about. A small greenhouse garden but they don’t have any fields for growing food, nor have they explored the forests for hunting game to any extent. Not that they plan to, unless things  _really_  go south.

Yes, from the outside, to the Genii, the Alpha Site’s Base Camp must appear ridiculously similar to a small native village, like hundreds of thousands others in Pegasus. Inhabited by people who happen to have access to some advanced guns and effective medicines but that’s pretty much it; and it’s all limited quantities. One day, it’ll run out. Their power generators will fade and die and leave them to live in darkness. That is what the Genii see: the Lanteans do not appear self-sustaining, self-sufficient, possibly not even self-aware of their own predicament.

“That’s acceptable,” John agrees, receiving a supportive nod from Teyla. References the drafts crafted by Weir on his PDA. Grain is always a welcome addition to the City’s foodstores.

Returning to writing the documents; it’s done digitally on a laptop, easy to review and alter if necessary. Copies of sentences carefully argued over, scrutinized. John feels a headache slowly starting to bloom between his eyes like needles. Takes a sip of water. The hours pass by;

They sit there, four humans and three Dæmons, in the artificial light for the rest of the afternoon. Mid-way through Dr Parrish from Botany drops in bearing coffee, which both Genii decline, the beverage not something they’re familiar with and it’s not like they have a desire to taste it. John’s heavy head clears slightly. A breath of vigor.

Elizabeth can’t return to Atlantis soon enough. This, the diplomacy and the talking and the waiting around in that office which isn’t his - not his thing at all. As night starts falling, they reach some kind of closure.

These things can take days, but Teyla agrees that this acceptable for now. Cowen needs to get back to his planet and his people; and John needs to read the latest news about the Aurora. The Warship is a pressing thing, and the quicker they can get it up and running, the better.

The agreement is made for the Genii to return in fifteen hours, enough time to rest and think things over and to tend to various business.

The document isn’t as long as John had feared it’d be and, hopefully, it’s stay that way. The jargon heavy and difficult; that’s pretty much unavoidable, especially in Ancient, such a formal tongue. Food in exchange for manpower, or rather brainpower, some shared research. It’ll help the Genii make a weapon of their nuclear powers within the next year. And, the most important clause, Cowen insists: the promise of distance and peace and non-invasion. The events of the Storm are not mentioned explicitly and Ladon Radim, pleasantly smiling, doesn’t even imply anything about it. Merely the insistence –  _always insistence_  – that the remnants of Kolya’s faction will be found and dealt with. “It is our concern,” Cowen says. “The Genii will handle this. If the Rebels attempt another attack on you, do alert us, Major, and we’ll crush them once and for all.”

(an ominous remark)

Shaking hands is a Tau’ri gesture, and they don’t. But Cowen places a hand on his chest, above his heart, as he says: “I hope this will be a new step toward trust between our two peoples.”

* * *

John and Teyla escort them back to the Gate. The air is chill, and foreign birds are singing far-off. Neither Genii take note of the Raven circling above, watching them from the top of a tree as the Stargate is dialed.

“Give my regards to Dr Weir,” Cowen says as a farewell, and then they’re gone. A weight like a stone lifts from John’s chest as the wormhole dissipates, and the Raven finally flies down and makes contact, landing on his shoulder;

“Last time I play diplomat, I think. My head’s pounding,” he says, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve as if to clear his mind a bit. “You think this will play out with them fulfilling any of those promises?”

Teyla is pensively thoughtful. “I admit that Cowen seemed sincere. But he is a very good actor.” It still stings; she and the other Athosians were fooled by the Genii for so many years, thinking they were a similar simple people, farmers, cowering under the Wraith’s shadow. Unaware of the hidden bunkers and fusion reactors. Teyla has apologized more than once for that, for not knowing, not foreseeing the trouble it would bring. John has told her, more than once, that apologizes aren’t necessary. If anyone, he and Rodney are at fault. They’re the ones who stumbled onto the secret passageway in a deserted barn, tracking an impossible energy signature; starting a rollercoaster of messes. Teyla had lost more than just a former ally, with whom the Athosians had used to trade for food. She’d lost a friend when Sora’s father was killed aboard that Hive. “About Ladon Radim I am not as certain.”

“Seemed fishy to me. Joining up with Kolya and then getting a place right at Cowen’s side? That’s just too good to be true.”

Over the years as a soldier and pilot, John has learned to trust his instincts as deeply as possible. Too often they’ve turned out to be right from the start. And right now, instinct is telling him: the Genii cannot ever be trusted. Is that xenophobic? generalizing them like that, somehow putting blame on  _their_  side of the fence?

The initial conflict was, after all, both their faults.

“Perhaps he regretted his actions as deeply as Cowen claimed.”

Or he is a spy, seeking goals of his own, working for someone else or himself.

No way to know for sure, not yet anyway.

John shakes his head, blinking away the afterimages of the event horizon glowing. The stars wheel overhead; the night is clear and fresh. Alien cicadas singing. They walk back to the Base Camp, on the lookout for the grizzly-like creatures tending to roam this side of the continent after dark. Some rustling shadows, but nothing jumps at them.

* * *

Lights in the windows. Everyone is gathered in the commissary for dinner, the room returned to its original order. Once they’re inside of shelter, John shrugs off his TAC vest and puts down his P90, joining the food queue, unusual in its size. Normally just four or five people tend to the day-to-day business of the Base Camp. The AR-teams assigned have already started referring to it as the Holiday Resort because it’s always so quiet out here. Nothing happens. The marines even have the chance of sleeping in during their week-long stays at M99-108.

Today there are civilians too and so much life: voices, laughter, exchanged banter and jokes. Something tugs, painfully, at the bottom of his heart, almost like longing. Passes it on. The menu’s vegetable stew and a very nice sweet bread, an Athosian recipe shared by one of their old women, Charin, with delight. Almost as popular as those cookies. John joins AR-4 at a table along with Teyla. The team is in deep discussion which sounds pretty serious;

“– no, no, I’m telling you you’ve got to watch the originals first,” MacGrimmon is saying, vividly.

“Actually, I’ve crossed that off the bucket list,” Kemp smirks.

“What’s it this time?” John asks, taking a bite of the bread.

“The finer points of American television,” DeSalle comments dryly. Is busy with his PDA, which is stacked against a box on the table, almost forming a shield between him and the rest of his team, and it looks like he’s reading a digital book. “It all sucks anyway.”

“How dare you! What I’m talking about here is a national heritage treasure.”

“Nothing personal, J.J..”

“’Cause you grew up posh with all the advantages.” MacGrimmon points an accusing fork at his teammate, but it’s in good humor, an old argument repeated in new form. “My folks don’t come pushing yours down, man.”

DeSalle concedes. “All right, it was low blow. I’m sorry. We even?”

“Until next time you side-eye the brilliance of …”

Gladys rolls her eyes, filtering the conversation away, and eats her stew. Focuses on Teyla and John instead. The whole place has been churning with rumor, all since they got that message of second contact by the Genii. People are angry; some refuse to believe. Refuse to believe that they could be making allies with the people who invaded their City and killed Jenkins and Miller. The Lance Corporal asks if they’ve truly signed a treaty now.

“More of a pinky-promise not to blow each other up,” John comments dryly. “Plus it’s not all signed yet. That’ll be tomorrow, or the day after that …” Shudders a bit at the prospect. Couldn’t the Genii have waited at least until the Daedalus is back with Weir and the others?

Lieutenant Brittany, from AR-8, overhears. “Don’t fucking believe it,” she mutters. “We’ve actually made an alliance with them?”

So John explains about the claims of a rebel faction, of dissent among the Genii. Nothing new. Political unrest happens all the time, on Terra, in Avalon, in all of the galaxies and probably the universe, wherever there’s sentient life who have invented the word  _power._

Cowen hadn’t offered condolences regarding the two dead marines. John hadn’t either, toward the sixty people whose blood is on his hands. He hadn’t asked about names; if Cowen truly feels anger or disappointment or whatever toward Kolya’s faction, then he would not have bothered to learn about the individual souls who tried to invade Atlantis. Maybe, it’s highly possible, Cowen was in on it from the start. Wanted C4 and that Wraith data device; only when things went south and Kolya died, he changed his mind, quickly. Made up some story, and Ladon Radim and the other survivors fled with their tails between their legs, reporting to Cowen. It’s highly possible.

One thing is certain: they’ll never be able to trust the Genii. No matter what is being said and signed;

because words are simply words.

* * *

On the other side, Corporal Hester is full of relief as John reports back in. The Gate is active, and John is sitting in Jumper Four outside of the Stargate’s immediate vicinity. Night’s fallen and it’s dark, and regulations don’t allow anyone to leave the Base Camp alone on foot. In a Jumper, though, it’s a different matter. Teyla has already gone to sleep back at the barracks designated as living quarters, well-insulated against the cold which creeps upon the forests at this hour. It’s still and quiet, a kind of serenity which John lets soak into his skin and cleanse him; it’s been a long, tiring day.

 _“City’s fine, sir, all quiet,”_  Hester says. He’s standing in the Control Room, which contains fewer people than usual. Many techs have left to help with the Aurora.  _“Is there an ETA for your return?”_

The marine may not be saying it with so many words, but the position of command, so suddenly thrust upon him, is making him nervous. John understands. Hester’s is at least only temporary and he knows that; when John was in the standing guy’s shoes for the first time, Sumner was dead mere hours before and they’d just found out about the existence of an alien race that wants nothing but to destroy them all.

“No sooner than twenty-four hours,” John says, a bit of a warning so that the marine doesn’t get his hopes up about being able to return to his normal duties just yet. A Corporal is a link toward leadership but they aren’t usually left in charge for the whole military contingent of a base. Or the majority of it, anyway, those who aren’t on the Alpha Site or onboard the Aurora. A perfect exercise, though. Hester seems to be handling it well as far as he can see, and this will be a good report on his record.

A nod in return.  _“We’ll keep the City afloat, sir.”_

After some reports have been transmitted, including a copy of the first draft of the treaty to be sent to Earth for Weir to have a look at, another planet is dialed. P91-987 is barely within range to send a clear signal to the Aurora, hovering on the edge between its system and the next. The image returned is a bit grainy and unstable due to interference and there’s a slight lag.

 _“Major Sheppard,”_  Major Lorne inclines head.

“What’s the word?”

 _“It’s moving forward, but slowly,”_  Lorne says. He’s sitting in the Captain’s chair aboard the Aurora. Albeit his uniform is perfectly pristine and his hair well-combed, there’s something frazzled about his expression. Mustn’t be that used to the pace of the scientists of this place yet. John has read up on him and found that Lorne spent his early days with the SGC on mining missions, babysitting excavations. Is actually a pretty good geologist himself, which might always come in handy; out here, everyone’s encouraged to study various fields, to not be singular in their experiences.  _“We’ve fixed that lifesupport power node thanks to McKay’s schematics. We’re already on the next problem.”_

It’s the interior that’s fixable first off: cables and wires, crystals replaced. Doors welded back into shape. The hull is still missing a few big chunks due to weapons fire, and the drone supply is low. But the Control Chair, at the heart of the Aurora, is sparking with life now thanks to the work of the technicians and scientists. Dr Zelenka has spent over two weeks there now non-stop, and people are always on the move. The Jumpers in the Hangar have been set up as temporary living-quarters, where they sleep, eat, and exchange gossip.

John hasn’t seen the Aurora in person since he left the ship behind three weeks ago, and few of the repairs have actually reached the surface layer yet; not visible at first glance, but extremely important. 

“Good work, Major.”

_“At your end, then, sir? With the Genii?”_

“Oh, you know, we talked and talked … and talked some more. But we’re reaching closure. It’ll take at least one more day, though.” John tries hard not to sigh in despair at the mere thought. Steels himself. Just another mission, and this time the weapons are completely different in design. “They’re returning at 1300, AR-4 will pick them up again.” Doesn’t want to linger on it too much. “What’s the next problem?”

The Major shifts.  _“Something about the aft shield emitter acting up. The docs say it’s nothing to worry about, since the ZPM provides plenty of power, and the power conduits have been patched up so they’re no longer leaking. Frankly, sir, I may have the ATA-gene but I don’t have the technical skills to be of much help on this one.”_

“I see. Dr Zelenka there?”

One of the techs, Sharpe, appears in view. She’s grasping a PDA tightly, running some calculations.  _“He’s sleeping. Should I go wake him up? Mind, we’re running out of coffee and he’s finished an eight-hour shift in the ship’s power core to repair the conduits.”_

John considers it but the doc’s been working hard, not used to this. Hey, the guy has never been offworld prior to finding the Aurora, and now he’s spent weeks onboard an alien ship, living, breathing, working. Instead he addresses Sharpe: “No need. Can you outline what’s going on with the shield emitter for me?”

The technician hastily flickers through several readings on her PDA, before starting to explain.  _“Yes. We started noticing a fluctuation in the power output of the aft shield emitter nine and a half hours ago. The peaks are still very small, but the intervals are even, at seventy-one minutes fifteen point nine seconds exactly. Each time we read a drop in shield strength following an exponential curve which currently stands at point zero-zero-three-nine percent, which lasts for as long as the peak, eleven seconds. Thanks to the ZPM we don’t need to worry about it right now, the repairs of the Bridge are more pressing_ – _which we yet don’t have all the materials for_ – _but once the drop passes two percent there is a cause for concern. Here, our last calculations … Are you able to receive if I send a databurst? I don’t have means to compress right now, and the calculations are extensive but incomplete.”_

Sharpe speaks rapidly in what really must be a science-person thing, and she might be dumbing it down, unaware if he can follow or not but willing to give him a chance without rolling her eyes about empty-headed flyboys; that’s all right.

In the background, Major Lorne is looking between the screen and the technician as if she might be as well speaking Greek, and John hides a smile. So Lorne is a guy you can talk rocks with, but when it comes to Ancient tech or the stars … It can be taught, though. Everything can eventually be taught and it’s easier to fly a Jumper (or a Warship) when comprehending its systems. A crash course is due, then. John wished for proper pilots, after all. High time he personally checked just how good a Jumper pilot Lorne is. He’s meant to be good; he’s qualified for the F-302s, those alien-based but wholly Tau’ri-built fighters which were carried aboard the Daedalus, ready for a fight with the Wraith. John’s very curious about those. Wouldn’t mind a test-flight himself.

“Wait a minute.” Glad he’s spend enough time around Rodney to pick these things up, John changes the settings on the laptop to be able to receive and decrypt such a transmission. “Yeah, we’re ready over here.”

As the file is sent - a slow download, but that’s forgivable, over a hundred lightyears between them even with the wormhole of the Gate open- Sharpe goes on: _“If our predictions are correct, we’ll see a continual growth in shield strength loss, but the ship’s computer is compensating, using the forward emitter. It’s not total equilibrium however. It’ll take days - three or four - before we see any significant change.”_

 _Wait; aft emitter_  … John scourges his memory, the time he spend in the Captain’s chair, controlling the computer and linked up to it, all systems announced before his hands; the aft emitter is located near the outside of the hull, and only accessible from there. A serious design flaw, John has to say: because to fix this they need to access the emitter from the outside, an EVA. They’ve only got on spacesuit on board. And the shield need to remain online to stave off the deadly radiation reaching them from the supernova. He realizes this and asks, hopeful: “Any way to EVA?”

 _“We’ve considered that,”_  Sharpe nods.  _“But we haven’t found a way to bypass the shields, which are streamlined to form around the original shape of the hull. If a spacesuit isn’t allowed to pass through, we can’t reach the emitter. And shutting the shields down completely, even for a minute, is out of the question, since the hull is in such a bad shape. Radiation would kill anyone onboard and fry a lot of circuity.”_

 _“Yeah,”_  agrees Lorne.  _“That’s the consensus I got.”_

A ping from the laptop, download complete. John opens the file, and numbers reel before his eyes. This is deep and complex, and it’ll take a while to make sense of. A long while. “All right. Three days? That’s plenty of time to figure it out and maybe find a way to fix it remotely.”

 _“Yes, sir,”_ says Lorne. Whether he believes this or not is uncertain. Much more impossible things have come true in his line of work, though. One measly shield emitter shouldn’t jeopardize a project like this; the docs will figure something out.

 _“We have forwarded the numbers to Dr McKay via the City,”_  she says.  _“But we haven’t heard anything back yet.”_

“I’ll make sure you do,” John promises. “Nice work.”

Sharpe smiles warmly.  _“I’ll tell Kusanagi that. She ran most of the numbers.”_

With a handful of the usual parting words, the wormhole shuts down and the screen goes dark just as the clearing outside of the Jumper, no long illuminated by the blue event horizon. John yawns, stretches. Distractedly scratches his cheek. Then he returns to the pilot seat, the Raven on his shoulder, and together they bring the Jumper around, turning toward the Base Camp. A few lingering lights; two marines are on patrol inside of the tall electric fence. From this low altitude, even if they’ve done all they can thus far to make the Alpha Site defensible, it looks dejectedly small and vulnerable. The barracks spread out in even patterns on the crest of the flat hill they’re using as Base Camp, the jogging track’s deserted circle, the open square, the locked gate meeting the lonely thin road carved by many feet and a handful of MALPs – it’s all so small and there is no shield online, no cloak. Have started to dig out a deep ditch on the northern side of the camp as a natural barrier. Still not enough. If the Wraith were suddenly to appear in the night sky, their defenses would be laughable. They have a couple of rail guns, a missile launcher – nothing to take down a Hiveship.

John shakes his head, forces the thoughts aside. He’s simply tired. He approaches the parking spot and set the Jumper down gently, and cloaks it before exiting. Brittany, on patrol duty, greets him with a silent nod.

It’s quiet.

He heads for his bunk; a set of two barracks used as living quarters, cramped but comfortable enough. It’s warm and there are no cracks in the walls letting in the wind. After hitting the head and brushing his teeth, he practically falls into bed, kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket. Crawls under the covers, ready for a bad night’s sleep. Teyla, in the bunk next over, is deeply dreaming and doesn’t stir, though Kanaan’s eyes open a tiny sliver, glowing in the dark; recognizing him, the Dæmon curls back asleep by the feet of his human. This is such a familiar thing, for a team to live and breathe together, they are safe here and John chases rest like passing fleeting clouds;

It’s been a long day.

Tomorrow’s probably going to be just as bad.

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  2005-12-05 20:19 GTM-7 (25:49 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  Databurst 17
> 
> Hi there. I’m forced to remind you about some important calculations sent by Zelenka and Kusanagi about the Aurora’s aft shield emitter acting up. Had a look at the numbers and they’re right, something’s up, but I don’t speak science well enough to fix this. Don’t want the Aurora to blow up because of a broken emitter.
> 
> Talks with Genii went all right. They say they want peace. Honestly not sure if I’ll ever trust them. Teyla got similar vibes, though Cowen seemed pretty sincere when talking about the rebel faction. Not finished yet. Probably just the rebel faction thing putting me off.  Will hopefully be done by tomorrow before dinner and I don’t want to miss it, they’re serving sushi and there’s deserts.
> 
> See you when the Daedalus lands.

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-12-05 20:45 GTM-7 (00:15 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Databurst 17 
> 
> am looking at numbers & packing last necessities now   v. v. busy 
> 
> aurora won’t blow up don’t worry 
> 
> if it does I will yell at radek for the rest of forever
> 
> go to sleep
> 
> \- rodney phd phd etc


	11. covenant, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _he tells Ronon about the Genii;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xi.**

# covenant

**part two**

_he tells Ronon about the Genii;_

* * *

The Lantean-Genii Peace Treaty is signed as rain is pouring down outside, smattering against the window frames, and their names are signed in a flurry. Cowen and Radim for the Genii, and John and Teyla for the Lanteans – the word agreed upon, because they’re not all Tau’ri. Halling is there this time, standing witness without passing judgment. And so, it turns out, is Ronon Dex.

When the negotiations were explained to him, Dex had pondered for a moment; admitted he is no politician, doesn’t like the games, but understands how important a thing like this must be. He doesn’t know all about the Genii yet – the Satedans never encountered them before their fall, and in his years as a Runner Dex never stumbled onto their planet. The galaxy is a large place. 

John will tell him one day. Explain why, exactly, the marines have their doubts; Dex must have heard enough whispers, the rumors in the hallways. When he’d offered his services as a witness, to also sign his name upon the documents, John had been surprised. Said:  _it’s not necessary, you don’t have to._  But it’s a welcome thing. This shows to the Genii that the Lanteans have more than one faithful ally.

(The destruction of Sateda is never mentioned.)

They’ve kept is as short and precise as possible. Food in exchange for scientific expertise and support to help them develop their atomic weapons. The condition underlined to never use the weapons against other human beings, regardless of the status of conflict or peace; and Cowen had agreed. Said:  _We want the Wraith to be destroyed, no one else._ If the remnants of Kolya’s faction, the Rebels, make contact with the Lanteans, Cowen will be notified. And should the Rebellion be quenched, the Lanteans will hear word of it.

Cowen doesn’t cross his heart but close enough. John hands him an IDC and a device to transmit it with for his people to use when they need to contact them, and relays, reluctantly, the address to the Alpha Site. But that’s what they’ve got to use. Atlantis is meant to be hidden, and they haven’t got a base elsewhere. Cowen takes the device and the code and says, “Should your people be in need of aid, Major Sheppard, you know how to contact us.”

It seems pretty sincere and real. Parting on amicable terms. They walk to the Stargate, and John and the other Lanteans watch the two Genii go.

As if Kolya never happened, as if it never happened, as if it never –

The wormhole shuts down, and Dex, his hair drenched by the rain, turns to him. “So what’s the deal with the Genii?”

John exchanges a glance with Teyla. “That’s a long story. I’ll tell you once we’re back in the City.”

* * *

The Daedalus takes off from Earth within the hour of the last databurst.

A report is sent over subspace, relayed via the SGC, within the hour when John returns to the City. A brief video conference before take-off. Elizabeth is a mixture between pleased and ponderous, probably thinking similar things as he about trust, about lies, about the relevance of truth and circumstance and points of view. Ford and Bates act similarly, if a bit bewildered. So harshly struck by the invasion, of the deaths of their two fellow marines; to conciliate with the enemy, it’s difficult, almost impossibly so. Memory lasts a long time. And Rodney … Rodney is silent, as if stuck in a momentary flashback.

He’ll never forget what happened during that Storm, how Meredith was taken away and held against their will and touched, how the soul had pleaded and wailed, how he’d given in out of pure sheer pain instinct  **fear**  – Rodney won’t forget – John won’t forget. The cold, the complete control, of Seeing Everything and the City trying to stop him, as he put a bullet through Kolya’s temple; he won’t forget;

 _[Cowen isn’t Kolya],_  the Raven tries instilling consolation. Kolya is dead and they can’t let a ghost reign over them.

They won’t forget.

John has already decided that if they’ll ever send a scientist in person to the Genii homeworld to have a look at their nukes, it won’t be Rodney. He won’t put him through that. And they’ll be backed up by a well-armed AR-team. Preferably no one will be sent at all, knowledge exchanged electronically instead or by some other means, transmitted through the wormhole. Papers. Scientific advancements. They hadn’t agreed on a specific timeframe. More of a standstill, to be honest. But at least they are no longer in a state of uncertainty, waiting for the other to strike, this is no longer a Cold War. Cowen had said that if the Lanteans want to trade for grain, they’ve got to wait until the end of the Genii season, over a month from now. Harvest isn’t done yet.

Like their first attempt of an agreement, their first meeting, when the Genii pretended to be farmers unaware of how to split an atom and John and his team so naively offered some C4 for them to clear stumps to till their fields – all they’d wanted was some food. Not knowing the cost.

Once they get back to the City and the reports have been sent, John and Shy return to their quarters for a shower. Then he goes to Rodney’s empty lab, unstirred – some marines on cleaning duty have been in here, dusted off the surfaces, taken the empty coffee cups – they sweep through the inhabited parts of the City regularly – but they haven’t dared to touch any of the whiteboards or computers or scientific papers spread about. Considers writing another message, but the Daedalus is out of range now, will be until it enters the Pegasus galaxy.

Twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven more days, then Rodney will be here, returned; twenty-seven days;

* * *

He tells Ronon about the Genii. Dex is a good listener to stories, but this isn’t just a story. Doesn’t weave it that way –- starkly, like a report. Explains how they’d turned an alliance upside down when they’d infiltrated a hibernating Hive and lost one of the Genii. The father of Teyla’s friend Sora, and she and the others had felt betrayed as Teyla had been forced to leave the man or they would all have died.

John knows the inner conflict; Teyla rarely speaks of it, but it must have felt heavy, to make that decision. The guy might have been a stranger because of the lies the Genii had instilled in the Athosians, but John has told them all again and again and again not to leave anyone behind.

But Dex says: “I know.”

He’s made similar choices. John nods. “When we had the data device and were back on their planet, the Genii turned their guns on us, demanding we give them the device, our C4, all of it. I … I didn’t trust them, never did. I’d ordered Markham and Gladys to stand by in a cloaked Jumper each, in case things went south. We got out of there, but the alliance was completely blown out of the window.”

And the hard part comes, and he’s silent for a bit, finding the courage to speak the words.

Hasn’t spoken of it since he wrote the report, those months ago. But he’s spent far too many hours  _thinking_  –

“A few months later, there was a storm. We didn’t have the means to raise the shields. The City … She was toast. But Rodney figured a way, and he and Weir and I stayed behind to execute the plan to save the City. Everyone else were evacuated - didn’t have the Alpha Site yet, so we spoke with some neighbors. The Manarians took us in, but … one of them must’ve told the Genii. Or been pressed to tell them. End result was the same. It was just the three of us and two marines, and Ford and Teyla were stuck with Beckett, our Chief Surgeon, on the Lantean Mainland, couldn’t get to the City. The Genii stole an IDC and dialed in, told us they were refuges from a Wraith attack … We lowered the Gate shield.”

Ronon looks at him. His arms aren’t crossed defensively and there’s no hint of disapproval at such an action. The Satedan would have done the same.

“They shot the marines at point blank range. Killed instantly. The strike force was led by Kolya – Acastus Kolya. They told Rodney and Elizabeth hostage. He –”

_Rodney, silently, a cry, as Kolya’s hand grabbed Meredith unable to run away unable to breathe unable to_

“Kolya made Rodney reveal the plan to save Atlantis.”

The mere memory causes his fists to clench angrily breathing a tightening of his chest, and Ronon might be able to see it, read between the lines. He can probably see where this is going.

“I –” a sigh; “I did what I had to do. First time it truly felt that Special Ops training paid off.”

_(the Genii falling like marionettes, like bricks of a domino game one after the other the other and as he’d raised the Gate shield and watched the vanishing lights, there’d been no sense of satisfaction because Kolya’s hand had left an imprint a shadow on Rodney’s soul it **wasn’t right** )_

“We got the City back, and the shields online just in time to save ourselves.”

_Rodney, silent on the stairs, clutching Meredith to his chest like a lifeline;_

“Many of them?” Dex asks after a moment, grabbing a handful of popcorn. Turns out he likes the Tau’ri snack more than most foodstuffs ( _this is a vegetable?_  he’d pondered when introduced to the concept during the first movie night he’d been invited to). The question is deceptively simple, yet doesn’t sound like he’s asking John to boast, to say: this is how I won. What John is talking about is survival, and Ronon comprehends the distinction.

“Lost count after a while, to be honest.” The thuds against the iris:  _again again again again_  and one of the Genii standing around, staring in horror, Ladon Radim unconscious under a console and the blonde woman, Sora, shouting  _There! There he is, shoot him!_  and John had sprayed them with bullets, the recoil comfortingly familiar. “Raised the Gate iris on the reinforcements.”

Wouldn’t have made it otherwise. The City would have been overrun if he hadn’t reached the Control Room in time.

“Clever,” Ronon comments approvingly.

“Some of them escaped. Ladon Radim was one.”

“The guy with the Genii commander?”

“Yeah.”

Ronon pauses, and his Dæmon, sharp teeth gleaming in the soft light from the plasma screen -  _A New Hope_  forgotten, Luke screaming in the background as Obi-Wan disappears, felled by the red beam of light – “So if Cowen thinks they’re Rebels, why’s Radim with him?”

“You’re preaching the choir. Uh, that’s what we’re all wondering. Maybe Radim was a mole, a spy, from the start. Or Cowen was in on it all. We don’t know. Kolya’s dead; we never got the chance to ask.”

The Satedan looks away from him, at the screen again. Had inquired about lightsabers first time he saw one of the movies. Now he looks at the imaginary battles – used to comment they’re not realistic at all and fragmentary and clearly none of the people on the screen know a thing about war for  _real_  – and John doesn’t think the silence is completely terse or awkward. A hint of deadly, perhaps, because a soft growl is purring in the Satedan Dæmon’s throat, a sound so low his human ears can barely pick it up. 

“What were their names?”

Dex has always been curious and wants to know everything, know every person’s name and especially the marines. Can probably relate to them, the soldiers, the easiest.

He knows about sacrifices in the line of duty;

“Sergeant Jonathan Miller and Lieutenant Darrel Jenkins. They were good men. Excellent marines.”

Had thought they were about to lead a group of refugees to temporary safety;

Ronon nods. Has said that while a soldier as a Specialist he wasn’t an officer with command over a dozen people, no less a base, but he relates. Hasn’t said the names before, though, but there are losses. He reaches for one of the beers on the table (claims the Tau’ri stuff is nowhere near as good as a proper Satedan drink) and refills both their glasses.

This isn’t just to them, to Miller and Jenkins, to their ghosts; not just them, but  _everyone._  Dex says, “I lost my squad once. A Wraith ambush. I was the only one who made it off the planet.”

Almost a hollow laugh; John takes a sip. “Know the feeling too well, buddy.”

“Had another team before AR-1?” 

Of course Dex has heard all about AR-1. If not from Teyla then from the marines. Rumors of their missions, the mishaps seeming to strike them around each and every corner, their discoveries, smoothing over their faults;

“Yeah. Back on Terra, planet where I was born. One was named Dex, you know. Makes the universe suddenly feel very small.”

Ronon flashes a grin. “Dex, huh? Sounds like a good warrior.”

“A good pilot. Dex, Mitch, Lyle, and I. Were stationed in Afghanistan. Second tour went to hell. Chopper got shot down outside Kabul.” A shudder of memory. “That’s what led me here, to Atlantis.” A chance in a thousand, a million; a curse, it felt at first. That they had to die for this; “Operation Enduring Freedom – the irony, huh.”

“The marines said there are no Wraith on your planet,” Dex says. Curious, yet not naively so. “Who’re you fighting?”

“Each other. It’s politics, it’s religion, it’s power and money, the wrong people handing out the orders, it’s … it’s whatever we can think of. I joined the Air Force ‘cause I wanted to fly, and, maybe, maybe make a difference.” John sighs. Fuck, he’d been so naïve, and when he first signed up he still thought war was inevitable and there were honest chances of glory and that untainted heroes could exist. “I’d hoped that, at least when faced with an adversary like the Wraith, the human race would be past that. But then shit like the Genii goes down, and that thought is crushed like a bug on the windshield.”

A nod. “Was the same on Sateda. Not just the Wraith was the enemy at all times.”

Human nature.

“It sucks.”

Ronon approves of the way of describing things. Raises his glass, clinking it against John’s.

On the screen, Luke Skywalker cheers along with the rest of the rebellion as the Death Star explodes in a massive cataclysm, the ending which John would reenact as a kid, running through the kitchen with a model airplane in the stead of an X-wing, driving his parents up the wall; 

what if everything could be so easy as to blow up a Death Star to bring peace to the galaxy.


	12. moonbeams in a jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _this has got to be every pilot’s dream:_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xii.**

# moonbeams in a jar

_this has got to be every pilot’s dream:_

* * *

**Void between the star systems of P29-814 and P91-987 · Pegasus**  
**77 days after the Uprising**

* * *

John has just enough time to park Jumper One and repressurize the Hangar before the docs are upon him.

Before going to bed the night before leaving the City, he’d packed a duffel bag, not knowing if he’d end up spending three days aboard the Aurora or five or ten. Depending on the condition on the ship and what occurs while he’s there, the journey might be extended. Probably  _will_  be, with his track record for trouble. The last reports indicated that the aft shield emitter is still acting up, more than before. And they haven’t got the engines online yet, and there’s the ever-ongoing work of repairing the hull, welding it sealed one square inch at a time;

He’s been listening to the radio chatter ever since he came in range; it’s a twenty-five hour ride from the nearest Gate, and it had been a long and quiet journey, lonesome but also provided a time to simply breathe. The Jumpers can function pretty well on autopilot, he’s discovered, as long as there’s a person in the ship with the ATA-gene. Not an issue, naturally. Or maybe Jumper One simply likes him well enough to do the work for him when he’s too tired. He’d exited the Gate on P91-987, left the planet and its faint star behind. Passed by a rogue asteroid slowly falling into the gravitational center of the star system. Outward. Into the void. The thing is, even in the densest of asteroid fields, the average distance between each rock is several miles, and the light is too weak and sparse to make them visibly glimmer. The Jumper’s sensor would alert him, though, if anything approaches. After some eight hours he settles in the back compartment in a sleeping bag to get some rest.

He’s brought some extra tools with him, some more food (no MREs this time but actual food made by the cooks back home), as well as a sizable stash of coffee – though they are running out in the City surely and slowly and everyone will be glad once the Daedalus arrives with more. Major Lorne is going to take the Jumper and possibly a couple of marines - the security is wanted, a necessity, but some of them have been out there for well over a week and deserve a break.

Woken by the Jumper alerting him that the Aurora is less than four hours away. Slept longer than he’d planned to but feels a bit more clear-headed after, even if dreams never claimed him. As soon as he’s landed, Dr Zelenka appears in the opened hatch along with Evans and Oakley from AR-3, the team on duty  _(guarding_  according to the scientists;  _babysitting_  according to themselves). Not the only ones onboard the craft, though; Kusanagi and Sharpe, as well as three other engineers and one technician are currently here. A very light force by comparison to tackle the massive structure; if they could, if they had the manpower available, the Warship could easily house over a hundred of technicians, welders, engineers. 

As the two marines begin to unload the supplies from the Jumper, Zelenka explains what’s so pressing. The energy drop in the shield is causing more concern. Up to over three percent at a much faster rate than anticipated; calculations constantly adjusted. Dr Kusanagi and Sharpe are in the Bridge monitoring right now, but they’re fearing that if this goes on the aft emitter will blow completely, and the shield lose integrity, and then radiation will kill everyone onboard.

 _[Wonderful],_  Shy remarks as they take flight ahead, unburdened by any bags or weights. People have begun to get used enough to it now that no one bats an eyelid as the Raven crosses the Hangar swiftly and disappears into the nearest corridor, out of sight.

Sounds like a pretty normal way to start a mission: impending doom.

“It’s only been two days, I thought you said three until there’d be cause for concern,” John says, frowning, as he exits Jumper One with an equipment case in each hand.

The doc nods, and stabs at his PDA a couple of time to refresh the feed. “Yes, so we thought, but that was because forward emitter is compensating more than we realized. Newest diagnostics shows a steady decrease in power output.”

They pass through the wide doors of the Hangar, which close behind them with a heavy thud. Turn left, toward the Bridge. A brief walk of two minutes. 

“Have we reached a critical limit?” 

“Not yet. But at this rate we have five hours until we can no longer compensate. ZPM doesn’t matter, power is channeled correctly but not reaching the emitter properly. If not repaired the shields will fail -”

_Yeah, sounds like any other mission._

* * *

They reach the Bridge, and Kusanagi looks up from where she’s standing by a console. Major Lorne is sitting in the Captain’s chair, looking tense. Knows what’s going on and the odds of survival.  _Just another day,_  John thinks, crossing the threshold.

“Major,” Lorne says. “Just in time.”

“So I hear.”

“We think we know what’s wrong with the emitter,” says one of the engineers, a British guy named Cotton. “A broken crystal. Or possibly several. It refuses to channel power correctly through all conduits.”

“All right, so we just need to replace them,” John says. Doesn’t sound too impossible. Apart from the obvious fact that they’ve got to get past the active shields to reach the maintenance hatch – already precisely located on the schematics – and while the shields allow Ancient tech like the Jumpers through without issue, a Tau’ri spacesuit is another matter. The foreign tech will probably register as something dangerous, something that must be kept out. They haven’t got enough suits to spare to test an empty one – don’t want to lose anything that valuable.

“And recalibrating,” adds Zelenka, adjusting his glasses. “We have replacements crystals from one of the Jumpers in the Hangar which we have cannibalized for various systems, only one Jumper so far but I’m afraid it’s made the ship impossible to fly. The crystals are now blank. We think the recalibration has to occur at the emitter once it’s connected to the system.”

“That your way of telling me it’s not a matter of copy-pasting data from the ship’s computer before installing them?”

“Yes,” Kusanagi nods. “Someone has to physically replace the crystals at the source and then recalibrate them.”

“EVA,” clarifies Sharpe, unnecessarily but in this line of work over-clarification is always better than confusion leading to mistakes and even death;

Well, he’s always wanted to be an astronaut. The proper way to be one fully would be to go out there in a suit, wouldn’t it?

And he concentrates on his Bond with the City and asks:  _Can Jumpers’ shields be connected to the Aurora’s?_

And after a while, the answer comes: [it is possible].

* * *

“The shield  _can_  be used that way,” John explains, “and it’ll only be for a few minutes – the EVA shouldn’t take more than fifteen or twenty.”

Major Lorne is scrutinizing the plan like it’s the worst, most improbable thing ever invented by mankind. AR-3 are present as well. Lieutenant Johnson is chewing on a powerbar, having been woken from a nap by his teammates; Lieutenant Evans and Corporal Tyler, the team leader, are hanging back a bit, arms crossed loosely. Oakley is staring fascinated at the glimmering hologram. Armed as usual, geared up as if for any offworld mission of uncertainties – just in case. Only time they disarm is when going to sleep in one of the Jumpers (personal quarters aboard the ship haven’t yet been cleared for usage). They need to be made aware of the plan, especially since it seems they have to evacuate the ship in order to make it work.

The four marines along with the scientists, engineers, and the two Majors are standing in front of a holomap of the ship itself. Everything is according to scale, the image put together from all the scans they’ve done over the past few weeks, constantly updated. It presents truly the enormity of the job ahead: all the sections of hull missing, vented compartments – doors sealed shut so not to leak atmosphere from the rest of the ship – splintered turrets and power arrays – all of the damage from ten thousand year old fires.

By comparison to all of the clearly visible damage, the malfunctioning shield emitter appears ridiculously tiny. The image is manipulated and zooms in on the array, located at the aft near the power distribution center for the engines. Sharpe and Zelenka compare the notes; Kusanagi is running the numbers again along with Dr Potts, while Cotton keeps half an eye on the shield capabilities, in case of another drop. The French technician Gagnon is by the Captain’s chair, monitoring the consoles; the ship’s partially on automatic but nowhere near all systems are fully functional.

The last one, thirty-eight minutes ago, caused red lights of warning to flash for sixteen long seconds about rising levels of radiation causing a rise in hull temperature. Not enough to burn, but enough to cause worry and they had evacuated the Bridge, so fragile and unprotected without the shield.

“That’s true,” Cotton admits. “We know exactly where the maintenance hatch is located and also the security passcodes to open it.”

“Still a risky idea,” says Zelenka. “The suit is good but has never been tested this close to a supernova. Radiation levels are very high.”

“Look, only the part of the ship facing the supernova has to be shielded, and the aft emitter is in its shadow. With the shield  _and_  the Aurora in-between, the suit can handle the rest.”

“The Aurora is over nine thousand feet in length,” Lorne points out. “That’s a lot of hull to cover.”

Kusanagi looks up from her PDA. “Only two Jumpers ought to be enough to act as stabilizing nodes for the forward emitter,” she says. “Radek, we’ve run the numbers twice now. They are solid. It’ll work.”

“Yes, well, better run them a third time,” the Czech scientists urges, anxiously. “Better safe than sorry.”

She and Lorne could fly the Jumpers, and Sharpe and Zelenka monitor the situation. Yes, that could work. 

 _Rodney would call this a bad daredevil plan,_  John can’t help but think; pushes the thought aside;

 _“Should_  work,” repeats Lorne, dubiously; a question without the mark.

“The plan will work,” John insists. “We’ve got to fix this emitter.”

One of the marines, Private Oakley, is looking at the holographic display and curiously weaves a hand through it, fascinated. The image scatter and pulls itself together again without issue. “Not wanting to sound like the archetypal jarhead here, sir, but what exactly  _is_  the plan?”

* * *

The corridor outside of airlock 3C on the vessel’s starboard side is crowded.

It takes quite an effort to get into the bulky spacesuit which, inside the ship’s artificial gravity, feels heavy, a dead weight of over fifty kilos which for a minute makes John consider spending more time in the gym lifting weights rather than sparring for agility. Zelenka, Cotton, and Gagnon have to help him into it, not at all maneuverable inside. It’s not until gravity ceases to rule the day that the suit will be the least comfortable. They haven’t sealed it yet, the helmet’s off, checking the oxygen levels one last time. Zelenka is nervous, muttering in Czech, and John catches the end of a sentence – something about McKay committing murder while Radek is asleep if this goes wrong – and he says: “It’ll work, doc.”

“Well, forgive me for being pessimistically concerned, Major.”

The helmet is fixed and sealed, a puff of air and the eight hour plus of oxygen supply kicks in. It tastes different from the air aboard the Aurora, somewhat stale. Another status check; everything’s looking good.

Over radio, Johnson announces that the rest of them are in the Jumpers, waiting for the word. Oakley and Tyler are in Jumper Three with Dr Potts, while Johnson and Evans are in Jumper Five along with Sharpe. The programming has been done, and the shields of the Jumpers recycled and connected with the Warship’s. Once out there, Kusanagi and Lorne will activate the shields at the same time as the aft emitter is activated and the programming should kick in, shifting the shield to form a three-point sort of umbrella between the forward emitter and the two Jumpers. It all has to be controlled, motions in three dimensions.

Yeah, Rodney would call this plan incredibly dangerous and daring and irresponsible;

“All right, you’re ready,” says Kusanagi. She grabs her PDA, and, before going, turns to say briefly, “Fingers crossed.”

Zelenka doesn’t do this, perhaps not as superstitious. Or quite superstitious and worried that bad things will happen if he wishes any luck. Instead he makes sure that the four crystals are safely stored in the equipment case and secured to the wire attached to the suit. “Don’t die,” the scientist says very very seriously.

“Hey, doc, it’s me.”

“Exactly why I am concerned.” Without further ado the scientist scurries away to get to Jumper Three with Gagnon and Cotton.

Last one to go, Major Lorne offers a brief salute and it’s the first one John recalls getting from him. Pretty weirded out, he admits his arms are kind of too heavy right now to return the gesture.

Then the corridor is cleared, and John waits until he hears the positive signal that Lorne has reached Jumper Three and Kusanagi Jumper Five, and the Warship is silent as the Hangar is opened, the Jumpers taking off. And then John enters the airlock, seals it. The suit’s lifesupport is online, breathing easy.

“I’m ready,” he says.

 _“One moment,”_  is the reply. Sharpe. She’s hooked a computer into the Aurora’s control, to remotely be able to deactivate the aft shield emitter when ready.  _“Ready to initialize shield shift.”_

“Standing by.”

The Raven is in Jumper Three, waiting. Easiest that day, they’ve decided. Even if the Dæmon may be able to survive vacuum for a limited time, there is no need to take the risk, and there aren’t exactly any suits adapted for their Shape easily available. And distance is no issue. At least they’ve never experienced it yet and at times Shy has flown over a mile unhindered;

_“Jumper Three in position.”_

_“We too_ – _I mean, Jumper Five is in position,”_  says Kusanagi a second later, stumbling on the jargon.

 _“Shifting shield now,”_  says Zelenka.  _“Mary, do you see it?”_

 _“Yes, it’s working,”_  Sharpe confirms, the engineer checking her data.  _“Major Sheppard, you are go for EVA.”_

The countdown begins. 

Exhaling, John presses the button. There is no sound in space, and the doors slide open. “Demagnetizing boots now,” he says, taking a step forward and weightlessness takes him;

* * *

It’s exhilarating, and he knows the others are reading his vitals, his pulse. Wills his heart-rate to remain normal but it probably shows a spike. Not out of fear but excitement. He’s in  _space!_  in a  _spacesuit!_

This has got to be every pilot’s dream;

On the outside of the airlock there is a set of nooks which can also be used to attach a hook to, for which they’ve procured a line of steel rope and it’s carefully attached to the suit at one end, through which the case with the crystals has been knotted. The other end he now fixes to the ship, so that he won’t be lost in the emptiness of space. On the radio he can hear the open frequency, the two Jumpers and the people within, murmuring and breathing. Lorne and Kusanagi are speaking, making sure their Jumpers remain aligned the right way with each other and the Warship. Not an easy thing when, even with the engines offline, the Aurora is drifting through space, carried on momentum, at several miles per second. Another necessity for him to be literally hooked to the ship.

He turns – more difficult than anticipated, but he remains from cursing aloud, don’t want them to think anything’s wrong when he’s merely a bit annoyed – does his best not to tangle the wire. Then, once lined up with the ship, he magnetizes his boots to be able to walk along the side of the hull. It is, at least mostly, stable enough to do that, allowing him to walk in a mostly straight line from the airlock toward the maintenance hatch. 

Sharpe and Zelenka give constant updates.  _“Shield holding. Status?”_

“Nearing the hatch now,” John says, breathing even. 

The distance is less than fifty feet and as he comes close enough to see, he can’t hold back a sigh of understanding - and disappointment.

 _“How does it look?”_  asks Zelenka.

“Pretty bad. Half the hatch is blown away.” It would explain why the crystals are cracked. Debris or weapons fire must have struck one or more of them, causing the malfunction. The hyperspace jump to escape from the exploding nova probably made it worse, causing the inevitable failure. After all, most of the time the Aurora hovered in the middle of nowhere undiscovered, the outer shields weren’t online; only the now quiet stasis pods were then active and magnetically shielded. 

“I guess there is little need for the passcode now,” John remarks wryly. Makes sure he the case is securely fixed to the cable before taking a leap, landing heavily side-ways, and he clambers to a halt using his feet and hands. About a quarter of the hatch is still intact, still clinging to the hinges, and there’s no sign of the rest. The edges are rough and charred and uneven. Within, six crystals are visible without any cover of the trays. Shut off, no lights blinking. 

“All right, two of them are clearly cracked,” he reports, “and one’s practically rubble.”

 _“Remove them,”_  Cotton instructs. Adding:  _“Carefully! The edges may be extremely sharp.”_

“Copy that.”

Nothing salvageable, and he brushes the pieces aside: gingerly gathers the dust and releases them on the other side. Can’t let the suit be ripped or torn and compromised. Like minuscule stars, the crystal pieces catch the light from the suit helmet’s spotlight before scattering and disappearing, tumbling away gently carried by the momentum of the throw. Taken by the night.

He turns back to the now empty trays, and opens the case on his hip. Without weight to direct their tiny mass, the four clean crystals appear to float upward, hovering near eye-height. Then he puts them in the slots, one by one, and returns the fourth unnecessary crystal to the case, shutting it again.

“The new ones are in. Crystals number three, five, and six counting from the aft.”

 _“All right_ – _copy that,”_  says Sharpe.  _“Uploading the data on recalibration to the datapad on your wrist.”_

John glances to his left arm, where the small computer is fastened, capsuled into the suit itself. It normally shows info on the suit’s integrity and his own vitals, but now the screen wobbles uncertainly before switching onto a new set of commands. The small rectangle screen fills with text and numbers. “Copy all, data received.”

_“Copy. Start with number three. There should be an interface nearby.”_

He can’t see it at first - just to check, he asks: “Sliding out from atop the button in blue?”

_“That’s the one.”_

Thankfully it’s right and true, and nothing blows up in his face as he gently puts pressure on the nook, causing it to slide out. He has to shift to get a better view of it, and the display is like a miniature screen like the thin white ones in Atlantis and in the Bridge, but with a touch interface rather than using consoles to input commands. “Found it. It’s dark, nothing’s happening.”

 _“Bring power online at fifteen percent but do_   **not**   _initialize the shields, whatever your do,”_  Sharpe instructs.  _“Round knob on the right, marked with Ancient for ’power output’.”_

“Done.”

The image is weak in color and contrast. Gently turning the power up, the already active crystals begin to glow, an eerie blue like the palest of skies without clouds. A hum of power, his ATA-gene picking up on it. Once he’s in, he can chose to activate any of the six crystals to rewrite data; he chooses number three. Following the instructions on the datapad, he writes commands onto the new crystal; not a lot necessary, only a handful of lines of brief code. Takes some time, as the suit’s thick gloves aren’t really user-friendly for this kind of job.

After what has to have been at least three tense minutes, it’s done and the blue glow spreads to the third crystal. The last two are still silent and unlit.

“OK, number three’s done.”

_“Number five next. Same procedure.”_

“On it.” One step back; selects number five instead; repeat;

* * *

He thinks he might’ve done this one in two minutes rather than three, but he feels the seconds ticking by and pearls of sweat are forming in his neck, despite the suit’s ability to make sure the human wearer remains at normal temperatures. As the seconds tick by, he gets more and more tersely aware of the fact that the Aurora is soaring through vacuum at high speeds and there’s nothing to catch him, and if he does this wrong, or initializes the shield by accident, the Ancient forcefield will most likely tear through his suit and body like butter, splitting him in two – 

“Number five’s done,” he announces finally. “Moving onto the last one.”

He’s concentrated on the task and not the background chatter - only Lorne and Kusanagi speaking, occasionally, to make sure everything’s correct with the Jumpers. Everyone else is holding their breaths.

Now though Potts is saying:  _“I’m reading another fluctuation.”_

 _"That’s not possible. The emitter_ – _”_  starts Zelenka.  _"Oh, oh, of course! The shield isn’t initialized at that end but the aft emitter now_ **is** _.”_

John clears his throat. “Uh, docs? Should I be getting worried?”

 _“No, uh_ – _”_  Kusanagi starts, probably doesn’t want to concern him so much that he slips and makes a mistake or something. But she doesn’t have a sentence to finish.

 _“The fluctuation didn’t cause a drop but a rise in peak this time,”_  Sharpe warns. _“The other emitter is compensating for the lack of shield of the far side of the ship.”_

 _“Meaning what?”_  demands one of the marines. Corporal Tyler, it sounds like. Wouldn’t break protocol with radio chatter unless the marine is truly spooked.

That doesn’t sound good.

 _“The shield wants to stabilize to its normal shape,”_  explains Zelenka.  _“Trying to delay_ – _”_

 _“Should I give the command to_ – _?”_

_“Yes, yes, enter it.”_

_“It’s not responding,”_  says Sharpe, worriedly, heatedly;  _“The Aurora doesn’t recognize the_ – _”_

 _“Permutations, they have to be run in the correct sequence,”_  Kusanagi cuts in from the pilot’s chair.

 _“Of course!”_  A mutter in Czech:  _“Trying it now …”_

 _“Docs, what’s happening?”_  asks Lorne, tightly, voice utterly controlled; the scientists are too busy working to give a direct answer.

Trying to speed it up. His hands are steady. They have to remain steady. If he screws up now – but, shit, just hearing their tones of voice causes his heartbeats to quicken, a buildup of adrenaline, the basic human instincts of fight or flight. And this isn’t the kind of thing he can fight. Almost there,

almost,

 **almost**  …

Writing the final digits of the ending copied line, the last crystal begins to glow, and the touchscreen withdraws, folding into the ship;

It’s like a surge of power and maybe it’s his ATA-gene, the connection with the ship, maybe it’s pure instinct yelling at him to  _get the hell away._  John demagnetizes the suit’s boots and pushes away, knees bending – away away away he has to -

The shield slams into being. It releases the two Jumpers and the nodes which have held as an anchor on onto the far side of the ship, and now envelopes the whole Aurora like a coat of glimmering color. It cuts through the steel wire, the unfamiliar basis of tech, and John knows he’s drifting freely now.

Major Lorne is frantically repeating, not quite shouting but close enough:  _“Major Sheppard, what’s your status? Major Sheppard?”_

“Still here,” he says, can practically feel the sighs of relief. That was an intense moment, too intense. “But I’m not longer attached to the Aurora and could use a cab.”

 _“Understood, Jumper Three is on its way,”_  Lorne responds immediately.  _“We have you on the HUD.”_

“Sitrep on that shield?”

 _“Reading a hundred percent shield stability. It worked,”_  says Zelenka, wiping sweat from his brow.  _“Jumper Five can return to the Aurora.”_

Kusanagi acknowledges:  _“See you in the Hangar.”_

* * *

 _[That was too close to a bad ending]_ , Shy whispers.

The Aurora is fading further and further away. Or he is. It’s like a sequence out of a dream. They track his radio signal as well as the weak spotlight shining from the helmet. John can’t do much else than wait, and wonder slightly at the beauty of the stars, unhindered. The nebula formed as a result of the supernova – a glimpse, past the craft’s bow: it’s like someone’s tipped out a bottle of paint in all kinds of color, and even if his human eyes are limited, the greens and blues are gorgeous in their simplicity, the swirling shapes. At the center blinks a brilliantly shining compact neutron star, a speck of white the brightest spot in the sky;

Drifting freely. Nothing but momentum, no drag, no sense of Gs, nothing catching him. The gravitational pull of the Aurora hindered by the shield – he can’t reach out and touch anything;

Good thing he isn’t claustrophobic with this suit on, encompassing and unyielding. A pilot has to be able to deal with tight spaces, with a cockpit with a limited supply of air. Knows that he has nearly eight hours of oxygen left - nothing to worry about. No, he’s not claustrophobic. And never in his life has he felt frightened of grand open spaces for what is the sky but not that? A canvas waiting to be painted; a canvas without edges.

This canvas is infinitely large and untouched, most of it isn’t stars or planets or matter. He is drowning in an ocean of vacuum.

For some reason, he feels – calm. Very calm. Knows that Jumper Three is on its way, that they’re picking up on his lifesign, his heartbeat, the sensor bouncing a weak shadow off his silhouette. A comfort of being found. He’s not outright afraid. This – this, he thinks, if he ever is going to die, this might be how it’s done. Not that he wants to think of it too often but he has to, imagined it: an explosion, a Stargate’s wormhole never reaching its destination, a bullet. This silence – it’s beautiful. The stars, a hundred thousand million of them, the whole galaxy. He might see the shape of it from here, unhindered. Pegasus is irregular, denser in some places than others, not the neat disc of Avalon. Scatters of gas clouds giving it color; places were stars are being born right this moment. And far-off dots which aren’t stars but whole other galaxies.

Perhaps the frightening thing is the size of it all and before, before when still tied to the Earth, it didn’t strike him as often. Their fleeting passing moments and vulnerability.

He smiles wryly.  _Perfect spot for a bit of contemplation about existence._

The Raven – the Bond clinging onto his mind, an embrace - chuckles. Sees through his eyes like he does sometimes through theirs.  _[It’s beautiful.]_

The stars.

Space isn’t really cold. Vacuum isn’t ice, not in the literal sense – yeah, he’s read about it. Read all about it – because there are no atoms in the void, and without molecules there’s no warmth no heat no cold there’s nothing, and through the stretches of time curved by gravity the Bond is ever clear, every noise perfectly intense as if their voices were the ringing of a bell in a cloister. 

It’s not cold, but the nothingness is hauntingly empty and emptiness  _is_  cold - the paradox, he guesses. The paradox of things.

(this has to be every pilot’s dream, to be an astronaut)

Speed is in a way irrelevant.  _Wonder how far that is?_  he thinks, looks at the Aurora. Can see the whole span of it without issue.

 _[I don’t know],_ the answer, worryingly;

They’ve never been this far apart before.

Can’t have been more than three or four minutes. Five. Somehow, somehow he’s losing the sense of time out here, trapped in the spacesuit, only the radio and his own breathing and the Bond, so clear, but it won’t remain that way forever. What’s the limit? They’ve never felt it before. When flying over the Towertops of Atlantis, there was never any pain, there’s never any pain or sense of loss or emptiness. Reached miles ahead, raced through the skies of an alien planet on the lookout while John was immobile in the Ancient facility on Deserum. What’s the limit? Could be it is a slow Ghosting, and it will take hours or days before the hurt sets in. Like with the City, it’ll be lightyears and lightyears before – 

The Aurora’s massive hull is getting smaller each second. Turning away. The Warship is headed away, away, and John can’t grasp anything to direct his own flight path, to correct it. There are no instruments or tools or engines, no rope. The nebula remaining bright, the pulsar at the center a beacon; he’s forced to shut his eyes tightly, realizing his breathing is speeding up, his heartrate, an instinctive reaction kicking in and he can’t raise his arms to shield his face from the inevitable;

they’ve never been this far apart.

 

they’ve never

 

never

 


	13. restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Atlantis is the Last City but there could be ghosts;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xiii.**

# restoration

_Atlantis is the Last City but there could be ghosts;_

* * *

They’ve never been this far apart; and he’s not sure of the distance, not anymore. Even if the Raven were miraculously outlined against the backdrop of the gorgeous nebula, John probably wouldn’t be able to see them, and the thought makes him feel cold, all of a sudden as it strikes him; and as the minutes pass by the Bond is weakening. He can live a hundred, a thousand lightyears from the City but between him and the Raven, there’s never been pain before and never any lightyears, never more than this, and if this is what it feels like, the edges beginning to rupture, he never wants to experience it. Never wants to imagine it;

(people have died this way)

But then as Major Lorne directs the Jumper closer, closer, the Bond mends itself, and John can  _breathe;_

Jumper Three finds him after eight or nine minutes, he can’t tell, no markers of time out here. He’s barely visible like this, with so little light, no nearby sun to guide. Even the supernova, for its luminosity and relative distance, doesn’t cause him to leave behind a long shadow. Lorne guides the Jumper around to catch him, the cockpit sealer and the hatch open, and he tries matching John’s velocity so that he won’t crash right into the Jumper and splatter like a bug against the bulkhead door.

Thankfully Lorne’s a pretty decent pilot, also in space – the F-302 has taught him a lot – and the Jumper catches him, and the hatch shuts behind him. John ends up lying on his back rather than standing as the artificial gravity readjusts and the compartment repressurizes.

 _“Aurora, we’ve got the Major,”_  he hears Lorne announce, voice sharp in his earpiece. The familiar hum of the Jumper is comforting, as is the newfound proximity to the Raven. Something to relish. 

The weight of the suit becomes extremely apparent again. John tries to push himself up as the bulkhead doors open, but Zelenka, his hair at disarray and glasses askew, puts aside a PDA and says: “Don’t move, please; we don’t you to break your back.”

“I won’t break my back, doc,” he says but is ignored. Oakley and Tyler, hovering with their Dæmons nearby, stand up from their seats to help as Zelenka gets the helmet off with a hiss of air, and the suit’s lifesupport shut off.

Together they peel it off him, layer by layer. The people who designed these things never intended for a person to tackle wearing them on their own, or getting out of them. They manage to land in the Hangar before he’s out of the last boot and can put on his usual ones. The lack of weight of the normal BDU is for a moment incredibly startling and disconcerting.

“Never known an astronaut before,” Oakley remarks casually.

“Technically, we’re  _all_  astronauts,” Tyler points out.

“You know what I mean.”

Time for a moment of rest. Then they’ll be on the next problem; and the next; and the next …

“Think I want to hit the showers first,” John says, and one of the marines makes a surprised noise.

“There are showers on this bucket?” Oakley exclaims. “Why hasn’t anyone told me? And, hey, where’s the water from - I thought all we got was what we’ve brought from the City?”

“It’s not water. More like a mist of chemicals. Quite effective,” says the Czech.

Dubious: “Right, so, maybe I can wait until we’re back in the City after all.”

“Yeah, Private,” Tyler says, wrinkling his nose, “after you’ve suffocated us all with your stink.”

The two marines and their Dæmons exit the Jumper bickering, and Zelenka turns to leave too; the others are waiting some way off, where Jumper Five has landed. The scientist immediately enters conversation with Kusanagi and Sharpe, and Oakley and Tyler rejoin their teammates Johnson and Evans. John is privately glad to see they team is getting along.

AR-3 felt the loss of Miller and Jenkins at the hands of the Genii the hardest. They were their teammates, their closest friends; a team is like family. For a team to be splintered, a lot of people have come to realize, is one of the worst things imaginable to ever happen.

“Nice flying, Major,” John says as Lorne cycles through the Jumper’s systems as a post-flight check before putting the craft into stand-by mode. “I’ll owe you one.”

“Anything but being caught in one of those things myself, sir,” Major Lorne responds amicably. “I think I’ve been discouraged from spacesuits for the rest of my life.”

* * *

After a waterless shower and a nice hot meal, John goes to the Bridge, finding only Kusanagi at work. The rest are either eating or sleeping or getting some down-time. After the excitement with the shield emitter, they probably need it. The Japanese scientist is engrossed in a laptop, sitting on a reclining chair in the corner – they haven’t really figured out its purpose yet, but the chair a bit like the couches back in Atlantis and perfect for a nap. Coming a little closer, it looks like she’s not at work either but actually reading a digital book. Since everything looks normal and the automatic alarms haven’t gone off to alert them of a new issue, John leaves; heads downward one level instead.

His feet carry him to the corridor where they’d found the first stasis pods, where Captain Ephesia and her crew put themselves to rest, to wait. The same pod is there which he used to communicate with them. It looks the same as before, dark and shut down, but the laptop and wires previously connected to it have been removed to be utilized elsewhere on the ship.

Nothing different. There’s no dust and no trace of anyone ever having been in there.

Zelenka’s already explained that the program used for the virtual environment has gone. As if it folded in on itself and vanished as the Ancients Ascended. Maybe they don’t want anyone else poking around with it, gleaning information, claiming knowledge about Ancient systems and tech like the Wraith had tried to do.

Maybe they don’t want anyone else to get stuck in there and forget themselves.

John would like to think it’s the latter.

He lays a hand on the smooth rounded glass. A glimmer of his own reflection staring back, a dark-haired man with a Raven on his shoulder. For a moment it could have been a stranger. To think that, less than two years ago, he was a completely different person, stuck on Terra, Dæmonless and afraid and alone, and Lyle Holland was dead and the grave was empty, and he stood before the jury of the court martial wondering if this was it, this was the day he’s dishonorably discharged. To think that, less than two years ago, he didn’t know about life on other planets or Stargates or Ancients, and the thought of having a Dæmon of his own was laughable, would have brought him to cruel tears.

A moment he simply stands there, stares beyond the weak mirror image and into the empty pod, this lifeless thing which once could have housed an Ancient soul.

What was Captain Ephesia trying to tell him before he was disconnected?

How was that sentence meant to end?

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  2005-12-09 22:30 GTM-7 (00:30 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  Daedalus Databurst 01: Aurora update
> 
> _(recording starts)_
> 
> “We fixed the aft emitter, had to switch the crystals manually at the source; there was a bit of a close call, but nothing to worry about. Shield’s working optimally now. Of course, there are still the engines to repair and half a dozen other things … One of the drives might be burned out completely. If that’s the case … well, that’s one thing we  _can’t_  borrow from a Jumper’s system. And we’re not sure if we’ve got the means to actually  _build_  an engine or engine part like this ourselves … I guess we won’t be able to unless we find the Ancient blueprints somewhere and I’ve asked, but Her archives are so huge that searching is going to take awhile.
> 
> I’ll probably be spending at least another few days here on the Aurora, we’ll see. Wouldn’t mind to stay longer, actually. Over the holidays but somehow I doubt Teyla will let me without protest, so, yeah. Wonder who’ll volunteer for duty then. We can’t let the Warship stay adrift without anyone onboard.
> 
> But I don’t want to talk more about the Aurora. How’s flight? Guess the Daedalus is much more cramped and nowhere as pretty as an Ancient Warship.
> 
> I … Frankly it’s too quiet here without you, Rodney. It’s not just that I miss going on missions with the team, it’s - it’s too quiet.
> 
> Couldn’t you tweak the Daedalus’ engines to speed her up? No, that was a rhetorical question, I know you probably can - don’t mess around without Colonel Caldwell’s stamp of approval, seriously, I know that if I had command of a BC-304 I’d appreciate people asking for permission before tinkering with the systems. He’ll probably be happy if you ask, though. I mean, shortening down the Daedalus’ travel time is a win-win.
> 
> [momentary pause]
> 
> I …
> 
> It’ll be good to have you back, Rodney.”
> 
> _(recording ends)_

* * *

The stay turns out longer than three or five or seven days. Eventually Major Lorne takes his leave along with AR-3, replaced by AR-8. The scientists linger, though, and so does John, figuring he can help out here. They’re hard at work on welding back together the power distribution matrix hooked up to the hyperspace engine. Replacing crystals there too. They’ll need more materials to finish the job but once the last pieces are in place there, they ought to be able to fly the Aurora to Atlantis.

They’ve discussed the ideas of installing a cloaking device from a Jumper and integrate it with the Warship’s shields, like they’ve done with the City. Just in case. Would be a lot less inconspicuous to have the ship invisibly in orbit around New Lantea; they don’t want to attract the attention of the Wraith.

The hours turn into days, and the days turn into a week. John finds the days are busy. He may not be a technician or astrophysicist by trade, but he’s picked up a few things here and there from Rodney. And his ATA-gene comes in handy: spends a lot of time in the Captain’s chair, communicating with the ship – its AI crude, basically non-existent compared to the City’s – finding faults, diverting resources. Work is intense but lighthearted. Zelenka and Sharpe and the others are very talkative, capable of multitasking. The marines are somewhat bored and their shifts smooth. Do their security checks and rounds of patrol through the corridors, but there’s nothing out here.

An ounce of peace.

On off hours, when the scientists don’t need him to poke around in the computer or another system, he skims through the Aurora’s mission logs. Took a while to find them; at first, it looked like the Captain had simply wiped them clean. But after hours of searching and decrypting and decoding, they’d found the files. Almost a year’s worth of near-daily logs written by the Captain herself, or sometimes her second-in-command, Caelia. The woman who’d been killed by that nameless Wraith: and John wonders for a moment what she was like. He only ever met the Wraith bearing her image, her face, her voice, her fake Dæmon; nothing was there. No remnants. Now he can read what she’s written, and Captain Ephesia. A lot of it is sharply dry, impersonal, strictly professional and aloft. Reports of the mission’s progress.

A tally. A call of names. The Captain notes them all, each death. She cared about her crew.

She wanted to take them back home.

John translates, meticulously. There could be something in here. And Weir will want to read this, and Rodney perhaps too if only to seek technical or scientific data. There isn’t a lot of it. The focus lies on the crew, and on the mission. The long journey, the skirmishes escaped; the Aurora had ventured further and further from Atlantis, into the reaches of space where the Wraith littered Hiveships like following a hundred thousand different trails, and there were a lot of them – fifty, sixty, a hundred, two hundred; and the Wraith million; and they were hungry. The Aurora watched them attack human worlds to Cull and couldn’t intervene;

There is a moment of heat. Ninety-seven days after the Aurora first left Atlantis on the final, desperate voyage, they’d fought their way into deep enemy territory and the ship had been damaged, though not completely disabled. Not yet. Fifteen Ancients had taken a Jumper to the planet below – the Wraith homeworld, where the Keeper Queen watches over the Sleeping Ones, and they’d infiltrated the base. Dulio had led the attack. The guard, John recalls, who’d put him in that cell in the virtual environment; no memory left of the mission, of anything at all beyond the limits of the simulation. Fifteen had left – four returned. But they got the intel, and the Aurora leapt into hyperspace; they were pursued by a Hive, two, three; too many, too well-armed, the Wraith limitless in number;

After a hundred and one days, the log ceases. The last message is dim, quiet. The Captain must have been in despair:

 _Three more souls have been lost in our last battle: Laelius, Aemila, and Marius. The Enemy Vessel ambushed us from behind a moon._  
_The hyperdrive no longer functions. The hull has sustained severe damage. All nonessential systems are being shut down. The Aurora shall fly no more; we are adrift. The stasis chambers are prepared. Perhaps, we shall keep hoping, our sisters and brothers of the Last City will find us, aware of our course. We have attempted to send one message, but Atlantus is silent. I fear it is too late, and they have all left for Terra. If this is so, there is truly nothing left for us. In stasis, we may attempt to decipher the data we have gathered and turn it into a weapon. Once it is complete, we will revive, and launch a final attack upon the Enemy and put them asleep; or we shall perish._  
_I do not wish for my crew to despair, though they are all aware of the truth. I fear we shall never wake, never know peace, and never see any of our Cities rebuilt. The Wraith have claimed this Galaxy._

And Captain Ephesia’s last words, an echo:

_Long the days will be until the tide turns and our people return from Terra with a weapon to fight the Wraith. If this is not the goal of the Council, if they refuse to return, I doubt there shall come a time of peace ever again to these stars._

Then it ends, ten thousand years of silence and the ship had slept, turned slowly.

But one day – yes, one day – there’ll be peace. John’s going to make sure of it. They have more of a chance now: they’ve got the Aurora, and contact with Terra to send them more supplies. The Daedalus. The City itself. It’ll be a hard fight, a struggle but – one day. 

He’s not planning on ever returning to Terra, to Avalon. And if Atlantis is truly the Last Cityship in this galaxy, in this universe, he’s got even more reason to stay and protect Her and everyone within the City’s shields. Every human in this galaxy;

 _One step at a time_ , he reminds himself, and tries not to imagine too sharply a reality without any Wraith. Hope like that can drive you, but it could also crush you under the weight of hopelessness left in its wake, the pessimistic realism setting in: a dream unachievable.

First, they’ll get the Aurora to fly again.

* * *

The Daedalus isn’t in range to send or receive a message directly until twelve days after lift-off. The first thing which John sees, mere hours after his video is forwarded via the City, is a furious e-mail from Rodney which has been sent so swiftly the encryption is worryingly sloppy:

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  _to:_ j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-12-21 19:01 Zulu (24:01 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: Daedalus Databurst 01: Aurora update
> 
> You  **nearly DIED**  and you skim over the details so I hear this in a report from  **Zelenka**?!
> 
> Oh, this is so typical you, no thinking about your own wellbeing for more than thirty seconds if that and no sense of self-preservation! And Teyla wasn’t there to stop you! If you want to play astronaut again would you bring Teyla at least to have your back? Or are you deliberately trying to give me an aneurysm?? what use are the marines if they can’t make sure you don’t try something half-assed like this every second day???

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil   
>  _to:_ drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ   
>  2005-12-21 22:00 Zulu (00:00 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: Daedalus Databurst 01: Aurora update
> 
> It’s not on purpose. Plus this was less risky than half of our missions usually are.

* * *

> _from:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-12-21 22:55 Zulu (00:55 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: re: Daedalus Databurst 01: Aurora update
> 
> EXACTLY my point. Those minions are meant to have your six if I must use military speak to make you understand.

* * *

> _from:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  _to:_  drR_mckay@sgc.sd.civ  
>  2005-12-21 23:07 Zulu (01:07 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  re: re: re: re: Daedalus Databurst 01: Aurora update
> 
> Rodney, please stop sending automated spam to Major Lorne and Corporal MacGrimmon. They’re not responsible for what happened on the Aurora.
> 
> I’m fine. Found a medical scanner in the Aurora’s infirmary and could send data to prove I’m 100 % fine. No oxygen deprivation or missing limbs or whatever else. Don’t worry.   
> ps. Using capital letters doesn’t strengthen your case. You know that’s like argument 101 right?

* * *

> _from:_  drE_weir@sgc.sd.civ  
>  _to:_  j_sheppard@sgc.af.mil  
>  2005-12-22 07:49 Zulu (9:49 Standard Atlantis Time)  
>  _subject:_  Daedalus Databurst 02
> 
> John,
> 
> I heard what happened aboard the Aurora. As no one was harmed, physically or otherwise, I have tried to instill confidence in Rodney that there’s nothing to be concerned about. He mentioned something about receiving medical scans. He’s now tinkering with the hyperdrive (n.b. with permission from Hermiod, the Asgard onboard) to reach Atlantis faster, and it seems to be helping him calm down. Perhaps it would be prudent if no more EVAs took place in the repairs unless unavoidable until we return to the City.
> 
> On another note, Dr Zelenka notified me that you’ve found the ship’s logs. I’d be very interested in having a look myself.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> Elizabeth

* * *

_Well … I_ _did_   _ask him to do that,_  John reflects, smothering a chuckle. 

Some things don’t change. Few things seem to work better as therapy for Rodney than a computer or piece of tech for him to tear apart and put back together at optimum pace. John writes a swift reply, telling Weir not to stop him unless the Daedalus’ engines are about to implode or something or other because he’s pulled the wrong circuit, but the likelihood of that is low and they all know it. Besides he was given permission by that Asgard and, thus, probably from Caldwell too.

John never got to meet the Asgard when the Daedalus was in orbit around Atlantis for a time before leaving. A lot of people he never got to meet: many of the crew, no doubt, merely passing by in the background, technicians and F-302 pilots, strangers unwanted, glanced at through the corners of suspicious eyes. No one had wanted them there permanently, afraid of what they may do, what Colonel Caldwell might do. But he’d turned out to be all right, and Major Lorne too. 

All he knows about the Asgard is what he’s read in SG-reports in hours of free time with little better things to do, nights when he’s unable to fall asleep; interesting stuff, but a galaxy away and somewhat, somewhat irrelevant. And there is some data in the City’s database as well. They didn’t have the means to dial the Asgard home galaxy, Ida, before getting hold of the  _potentiae;_ now they could reach those distant stars, but to what end? The Asgard are a dying race, by genetic degradation caused by thousands of years of cloning, and because of war with the Replicators. They have helped the Tau’ri, given them knowledge and technology, a means to fight the Goa’uld and, later, the Wraith. The Daedalus wouldn’t be here if not for the Asgard. Well, John thinks wryly: a lot of them wouldn’t. The Goa’uld might’ve wiped the human population on Terra out long ago if not for the Protected Planets Treaty enforced by the Asgard. Not that Anubis and the other System Lords actually cared about that …

And the City has other stories to tell. About the Alliance of Four Races, the early days when the Ancients still inhabited Terra and filled Avalon with life and light. Before the Goa’uld reigned, before the Wraith. The Ancients had found Avalon after four generations of flight. The name of the First Ship – it’s vague and obscure, lost as their language has evolved and so has their technology. They didn’t have hyperspace engines then, though the ship could traverse the void at speeds Faster Than Light: the physics of which John can’t really comprehend. Rodney would find it immensely fascinating. A single ship, a few thousand passengers. The Ancients, the Alterans, they’d split from the Ori and fled – as Chaya Sar had told him on Proculus, about the First War. Details skimmed over. Atlantis’ database is lacking in history about it too, as if the Ancients had wiped that time out of existence, tried to forget. But sometime during that long, slow journey they came across Ida and the Asgard, and the idea for the Stargate was born. Later, they’d return with their new device and give at least one to the Asgard to use, and the Alliance had been born.

Wonder if the Asgard know more about the Ancients’ fate? The plague which struck them, them fleeing to Terra – did they contact the Asgard and tell them about the Wraith?

He’s never considered it before and suddenly a chill sets in, wraps around his throat and bones. Did the Asgard know? If they did, why not warn the Tau’ri beforehand, why not try to stop them from getting to Pegasus? It wouldn’t be beyond them.

And if they didn’t know –

The Ancients would have kept quiet. Oh, of course, of course they would; they were ashamed, wanted nothing more to do with Pegasus, with the human life left behind, with the Wraith. Their mistakes others have to deal with now. Clean up their messes. The Ancients, so proudly, so haughtily had fled without as much as a note, and the humans of Pegasus had to suffer for it. They’d kept quiet, by order of the Council no doubt. A few had resisted, tried to say that Pegasus was worthy protecting. To stay in, to attempt freeing. Chaya Sar. Captain Ephesia and her crew: they lingered to fight until the final possible moment, choosing Ascension at last.

What if there are others? Others in hiding, either like Chaya Sar, clinging to a single planet banished there by the Others. Or like Ephesia, frozen in stasis still in mortal bodies, trapped aboard ships or in underground facilities or maybe, maybe there could even be the ruins of Cityships yet adrift; the possibility is haunting.

Atlantis is the Last City but there could be ghosts;


	14. i would like to see you again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _there’s nothing left to do but pace and wait and wait and wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xiv.**

# i would like to see you again

_there’s nothing left to do but pace and wait and wait and wait._

* * *

**Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**   
**90 days after the Uprising**

* * *

“Hi there. How’s the fort?”

Teyla smiles graciously, probably humored by the Tau’ri way of speech. Admitted that she was intrigued by their first meeting when John talked about Ferris wheels and the Gate matrix couldn’t translate it to more than ‘big turning wheels’, and she’d later asked what exactly that is, what it’s for. Had said the Tau’ri are lucky to be able to build such things to amuse themselves and their children, and John had understood what she meant without spelling it out, and hadn’t had the heart at the time to crush that glimpse of hope and tell her all about the wars on Terra, the plagues of violence reaching across the globe and the oppressing nature of humanity. Hadn’t told her about anything of that, of nuclear warheads and Afghanistan and terrorism and unrest, of school shootings or massacres or of world hunger; none of that until months after first coming to Atlantis, dazzled by Her beauty.

_“All is well, Major. There have been no disturbances, except perhaps for the excitement of the upcoming holiday some of your people celebrate.”_

She and Corporal MacGrimmon are holding the City’s reigns, but Major Lorne is going to take Jumper Three and return along with AR-3. They’ve been on the Aurora long enough, and John figures they want to be in the City for the celebration of Christmas – they haven’t asked outright for leave but close enough. Cotton and Gagnon are coming with them too, and Zelenka; but Kusanagi volunteers to stay, in charge of the Aurora project in Radek’s stead, and so does Dr Potts. A Jumper will be returning with a new AR-team, which MacGrimmon is gathering right now. Not a lot of people would be happy to go, to stay aboard the Ancient vessel for a week or two instead of lingering in the safety of the City, the familiarity of it. Especially not now when Christmas is coming up and the City will experience a brief rush of festivity and light and laughter, everyone forgetting about the Wraith for a few hours.

Once Rodney and the others return, hopefully they’ll be able to deploy a larger work force and speed things up. The Daedalus is carrying as much equipment and raw materials that it can carry, and then they’ll be able to repair at least part of the hull.

“Yeah, there’s that,” he says with a nod.

 _“I hear your stay aboard the Aurora has not been as peaceful,”_  Teyla remarks, a hint of concern on her face. She has read the reports – her skills in reading written English is picking up really quickly – but probably not the science-packed ones, dense with equations and engineers’ footnotes. And no doubt she has heard how vocal Rodney is about it all.

“Pretty much as usual; but all’s well that ends well.”

_“It is so.”_

“Heard anything from the Genii?”

It’s a question that has to be asked, even if he’d rather forget all about them;

 _“No, not yet,”_  Teyla shakes her head.  _“There has been no word from the Alpha Site. But I anticipate they will try to contact us soon and ask us to send a scientist to help them develop their nuclear devices.”_

“Right. Kind of ominous, don’t you think? Thought they’d start making demands right away.”

 _"Perhaps they see fit to be cautious.”_  Not too bad advice, actually. Cautious is exactly what the Expedition will be, and if the Genii have finally realized … Well, things could work out. A glimpse of positivism.

In the transmission reports and notes are sent to and from the City and into the computer in Jumper One. The last mission of AR-8, lightweight stuff. A near-miss with the Wraith on P9X-313: a scout had flown through the Gate, a few miles from the village the team was visiting.

But AR-8 had helped gathering them before the strike, and the people, far too used to this kind of life, actually had somewhat of an Alpha Site of their own. A safe address – at least so far – passed down for generations. They’d abandoned their houses and crops without questions, and even the children had been quiet and hadn’t wailed or cried about wanting to go back home; eerie, Lieutenant Brittany had described it. They’d gone through the Gate to a quite inhospitable world, a hot desert on the fringes of a savanna and there was an oasis, a cave system carved out by human hands. Quite clever, actually. The archaeologists and anthropologists would’ve been thrilled to visit the place. AR-8 had stayed with the villagers that night and the next, waiting just to be certain. Returned to the first planet to find the houses raided and some of them burnt by weapons’ fire.

Same stuff everywhere. Makes him pissed off to hear, doesn’t matter how many times: it shouldn’t have had to happen. The Ancients shouldn’t have let the Wraith win -

(and is that unfair to think? biased? was there even a chance? Captain Ephesia and her crew had almost succeeded in their mission. If the Ancients hadn’t abandoned their Last City, would the message have reached home in time, would they have been able to put the Wraith to sleep forever?

does it even matter? the past is the past is the past)

“There were no casualties at all. They have begun rebuilding their homes and AR-8 have returned to help them,” Teyla finishes. She and Kanaan are pleased and saddened both at once. They too have to be wondering about the futility of this, the never-ending cycle. Wondering if the Tau’ri truly can make a difference, can put a stop to it at last. 

John has spent most of his time fighting the Wraith with a mix of pessimistic realism with heights of adrenaline-fueled hot anger, and there, in-between, the long eras of gnawing unease and heavy silence, watching the skies. The Wraith aren’t like any enemy he’s ever faced before: before the SGC, before all this, Terra was all there was and it’s a mess and he shot at other human beings, they shot at him, on and on and on and someone else gave the orders and the reasons. This, this alien race, whose true agenda isn’t intangibly abstract, a political or religious dispute, or about money or honor or pride or land – it’s food, it’s  _hunger_  – it’s utterly clear and yet incomprehensible. He’s seen a lot of bad stuff, been on human relief missions and  _seen_  – and out here, it’s the same. It’s the same and much worse.

(Another thing he’d warned Elizabeth about, when the negotiations with the Genii were about to commence. His outlook on the world can be pretty bleak. He’ll never trust the Genii, because they’d proven that no matter where, humans always, always find a way to mess things up.

Probably was the same with the Ancients. They became too clever.)

“That’s good to hear,” he answers, trying not to let these thoughts show on his face. “The folks need anything else than manpower to get back on their feet?”

_“No, it does not seem so. Fortunately, most of their crop was undamaged, and they managed to bring a portion of their foodstores offworld where they seem to have a cache for emergencies - they refrain from sharing the address with us.”_

“That’s pretty understandable.” A place like that has to be guarded closely; just in case; just in case. Got to respect that. “Sounds like they’re good people.”

 _“We could visit later to establish trade relations,”_  Teyla advises with a nod.  _“I will ask Dr Weir.”_

The usual pleasantries. They aren’t empty echoes. It’s quiet out here, the stars remaining the same. Work progressing slowly;

_“Will you return to the City for the next rotation shift?”_

“You and MacGrimmon are doing a good job, and Major Lorne’s returning with AR-3 – ought to arrive in about ten hours. I’m going to stay here a bit longer, work on translating those logs.”

The frown on Teyla’s brow is barely visible, a mere hint, though Kanaan tenses minutely by her side. Probably thinking about the upcoming Tau’ri holidays and wondering why he’s seeking avoidance; then her expression smooths, and she nods.  _“Very well. We will make contact again tomorrow at 19:00 SAT.”_

“Copy that. Sheppard out.”

* * *

The hatch of Jumper Six lowers, twenty-seven hours later, and John is expecting to be greeted by stacked boxes and other cargo that isn’t self-unloading. He’s pleasantly surprised to see Teyla and Kanaan, and Ronon and his Dæmon. There are two marines as well, and Markham turns off the Jumper’s systems while chatting with Stackhouse in a lively manner.

“Hey, guys,” he exclaims. Grins, taken by surging warmth at this gesture because Teyla didn’t need to come; she’s got friends back in the City, and he’d have thought she wanted to partake in the partying. “I’d have planned a nicer welcoming party if you’d sent a note.”

They disembark, weighted down by supplies; John shuffles a bag into his own hands. Teyla explains that it’s some generous gifts from the cooks back in the City. There’s even some hot cider from Te’reem, and that’s not cheap stuff. “MacGrimmon sends his regards,” Teyla says. “I believe he and his team received a fair amount of it last time they were on the planet.”

“Remind me to thank him for that.”

Unloading doesn’t take too long. Some stuff is to stay in the Jumper or in the next one over. They’ve cleared some of the crew quarters, though, those on level sixteen closest to the Bridge. There are even proper beds; welcome after the nights in sleeping bags on the hard grated floor of the Jumpers. John’s claimed one for his own, as have the docs. Markham and Stackhouse take the news with a whoop of relief, no doubt tired of having to bunk in the Jumpers with very chatty scientists who often wake in the middle of the night to discuss some problem or insight like eureka.

Kusanagi and Sharpe appear to help with the unpacking, oohing and aahing for a moment when the food is revealed: proper food, freshly cooked, plus some extra raw ingredients to stock up. They’ve found a kitchen and a commissary on the ship, and the setup is similar to the one in Atlantis, easy to figure out; no more MREs, which everyone’s happy about.

Though they’ll stay on the ship, they are fewer people onboard than ever and little work going on; a mutual agreement of a day off come tomorrow, and with only the one scientist and one technician at hand, they can’t delve into the bigger projects. Tinker with a crystal here, recheck a calibration there. Needs to be done too. Another sweep of the systems. The whole front part of the hull is still an empty shell, whole sections missing as if eaten away. Can’t do anything about that until the Daedalus arrives with some spare parts.

John spends the next couple of hours translating more of that log. Finds the mission reports as filed by the second-in-command, Caelia, and other key crewmembers and it’s strange, reading their words, so old and haunting; there is little sense of hope, as if they’re all realizing it’s a long and lonely chase for something unattainable. Peace. Freedom from the Wraith. None of them seemed to have truly believed that it’s possible;

* * *

At 18:00 hours he finds Teyla and Ronon in the Bridge. Sharpe and Kusanagi are giving them a quick lecture on Ancient tech and systems so that they can be able to understand the most important readings. Gesturing at the screens and the buttons, explaining the primary systems. Teyla has disarmed – at least her P90 and vest, but she’s got at least one hidden knife on her, John’s sure, and Dex carries around his sword on his back. Force of habit.

Markham isn’t in the Captain’s chair any longer; the docs must’ve let him go, not needing him to sit there while they record data. No sign of Stackhouse either. He and Markham regularly check in, and John isn’t worried; if there’s any trouble, they’ll notify him, or the sudden break in the regular schedule will make him aware.

“… these secondaries must only be initialized by someone with the ATA-gene, then anyone can operate them,” Kusanagi is saying. “Oh, hello, Major.”

“Having a lesson?”

“We are being familiarized with the basic functions of the ship,” Teyla says with a nod.

Ronon considers for a moment. “No one’s told me what ‘ATA’ is.”

John frowns. Haven’t they? Though, Rodney hasn’t been around to give that and other lectures, and maybe no one else has seen it prudent to mention. Too used to the idea to think of it as something startling needing to be explained.

Kusanagi adjusts her glasses. “Uh, well, the Ancients, they used a specific gene as a safeguard or key to operate their technology. The Ancient Technology Activation-gene activates certain enzymes in the body which enables the user to interact with the technology and control it. Uh, are you aware what a gene is …?”

“Yeah, got to do with inheritance,” the Satedan says with a shrug, and it’s a tiny tidbit of information, rare in the ease of which it’s shared; Ronon isn’t big on talking about Sateda, about his past, about what he knows apart from fighting. So much they actually don’t know yet, though John is building a greater picture piece by piece of the guy is like, his skills and weakness apart from the obvious. Got to know that if he’s to join an offworld team proper. And Ronon says: “My sister was a medic.”

He’s never mentioned any family before. John resists the urge to pry for more, to ask for names.

“So some people have got Ancestral blood,” Ronon says, and John doesn’t miss the sideways glance he receives out of the corner of his eye. Won’t forget their first encounter on Deserum, hunting Wraith together: Ronon had asked if he was an Ancestor then, and John had nearly laughed hysterically, a brief image, but it was asked in seriousness and for good reason. It was his Dæmon, back then, which made Ronon wonder. “Like Sergeant Markham and you?”

“Yes,” Kusanagi replies. “Though it is quite rare.”

“Doubt the Ancients liked to mix with us mere mortals,” John quips.

“Sadly, I think that is true,” Teyla remarks, sweeps her gaze over the glowing screens cycling through power usage diagrams. 

The Athosian’s view of the Ancients has become seriously dented since they first met. Raised on stories about the Ancestors, how they would return and bring peace and hope – has to be pretty crushing for a bunch of strangers to arrive and announce the Ancestors to be dead since long ago. Extinct and lost. For a bunch of stranger to arrive, to bring the Wraith upon them – and John hasn’t forgotten about the locket, and it still gnaws at him deeply. The knowledge that if he hadn’t picked that thing up, left it in the sand, maybe the Wraith would never have attacked Athos and the village wouldn’t have burned and Colonel Sumner would still be alive;

He shakes the thought away. 

Sharpe stands up from where she’s examining a crystal underneath a console and stretches, and suggests they eat. No one objects.

* * *

Time out here is different and slow. There is no natural day/night measurement of orbit, no planet, no sun, no falling rising light. The Aurora’s drift will take it into the nearest star system eventually. At this speed … in about a hundred and nineteen years. They follow Standard Atlantis Time, its twenty-six hour rhythm now familiar.

The good thing about the void is that the Wraith have no business here. Out here they should remain undetected and relatively safe.

(Everything’s relative.)

* * *

The mess hall is huge – meant for several hundred people: the Aurora could house four or five hundred with ease, John thinks, given her size and the capacity of the lifesupport. Could act as a lifeboat. With just the five of them, the commissary is an eerie place, echoingly quiet with long shadows and dusty furniture fixed to the floor and walls. They find a corner with an alcove and a window with a nice view of the stars, the far-off nebula. It remains the brightest part of the sky: will outshine everything else for a few more weeks.

Relatively speaking, on Terra, it’s Christmas Eve. Last year, there was a big party in the City. All moments of festivity were longed for: for a little while, they could pretend there were no Wraith, no danger. This was before they had the  _potentiae_  to raise the shields, before the Genii incursion. Teyla and the other Athosians had enthusiastically shared in this and other Tau’ri holidays and days of celebration. The Athosians as a people cherish feasting like that. A rare thing, something that too easily can be broken and swept away. People had done what they could to scrape together gifts for each other; offworld teams had traded for something here or there, and the scientists had put tokens together in their labs with whatever they could get their hands on. The gifts themselves weren’t that important. It was the gathering, this sense of  _one_  community – the early days, before they truly were that: one. 

Not the first feast they’d had, or the last. There were the occasional birthdays. Not a lot of people wanted to make a big deal out of it. John made sure no one even mentioned his. They had other more important priorities, barely surviving and uncertain of the future. This year, they’re a lot safer. The Daedalus is on its way and they’ve got three  _potentiae_  to raise a shield; the City is safe.

Sharpe explains the Tau’ri concept to Ronon, who listens avidly albeit his face is guarded, as always, difficult to read. Most people think he’s the quiet type who only pounces to fight, to kill, to hunt. Looming in the background waiting to strike. There’s something about his eyes, though, making it difficult to meet them head-on. John has seen those kind of eyes before, on people too tired, too old, people who’ve seen too much too swiftly. 

Those kind of eyes are far too plentiful in Pegasus, where families are torn apart and villages razed by the Wraith as commonly as breathing. In a sense, it’s a wonder human civilization still persists in any form. Eventually, eventually the Wraith will kill them all; the accepted fact; they’re trying to fight it.

The food is blessedly hot, and they share drinks and stories - not around a campfire but almost. Teyla has tales to tell, is good at it. Always has been. Uses the trick sometimes offworld when seeking peace with foreign communities, and out here, few worlds use hard currency. Food, medicine, and good old-fashioned storytelling or shared news are all often acceptable forms of payment. Now she retells words she has learned from Charin, an old woman who might as well have been her grandmother in all but blood, and Charin learned it from her mother and she from hers, as far back as anyone cares to remember; she talks about Athos, ages past, when it was a grand world, full of life and trade and laughter. She describes it so beautifully, like a painting. A time when the Wraith slept. Hundreds of years ago – before they yet again descended to Cull. Cities of glass and stone.

John saw the ruins, his first twenty-four hours in a new galaxy bewildered and utterly relieved because the City had finally been revealed to him. There were structures of stone on Athos, overgrown and nearly forgotten;

Teyla doesn’t round it off on a low, hopeless note, doesn’t say anything about the Great Culling. Instead she turns to Kusanagi, next to her, inviting her to continue the thread. The scientist thinks for a moment, and she’s really coming out of her usually rather shy, strained shell. A story from Terra is exotic to Satedan and Athosian ears. John listens with half an ear; savoring this moment of peace.

No one mentions the Wraith. Markham shares a childhood moment, causing them to laugh. Nothing grand like the others.

John listens. He starts thinking that, well, he’ll probably be prompted too to finish the circle and then he tries to think of something that doesn’t involve dying, an explosion. Has experienced plenty of things, but nothing pretty really comes to find; his tours, Iraq, the roadside bombs – no, not these dark things; 

Stackhouse admits he hasn’t got a lot of stories to tell but he is encouraged and no one criticizes anybody’s choice. Says, he hasn’t seen that much – a lie, John thinks, the guy’s a Sergeant. You don’t make Sergeant without seeing something. But, like him, maybe not a lot of pretty things. Ends up retelling a family trip when he was a teen, before he signed up for the Corps, a mishap adventure involving crisscrossing the states – emphasizing the size of the land for Teyla and Ronon to understand – in this old ragged car which had driven its last mile ages ago. Somehow reaching the end goal anyway, without breaking down in the middle of nowhere.

Sharpe’s next. Like a lively historian she retells an old Tau’ri myth - the one about King Arthur and his knights - and maybe she’s been talking with Dr Jackson, John reflects with a smile. He’s heard plenty about Jackson, the guy who’s supposedly died and Ascended but returned, and he and SG-1 has gone through loads of unexpected things. The duty of a frontier Gate team, probably. Met him only briefly in Antarctica after sitting in that Chair by mistake.

This story is to Ronon’s liking. And he indulges them, and there’s something about the way he talks which is incredibly poetic, not just in the raw and undefined way Teyla weaves her stories. There’s a definite sense of rhythm, albeit unknown, not any meter John has ever studied. Not that he’s studied a lot of poetry in his life. An Ode, Ronon calls it. No, The Ode: _every child on Sateda would read it._ A mythological flare to it; a kind of Creation Myth. If they’d had any Anthropologists present, they’d be taking frantic notes by now. This is a glimpse of Satedan history. The longest sentences John has ever heard him speak:

“… five hundred years ago, brother fought against brother, tribe against tribe; the was no Sateda …”

Like a pulse, rising and fading, rising and fading; and this might be the first time Ronon has shared stories from his homeworld apart from efficient ways to kill Wraith and how to recharge a particle magnum. It’s a classical hero story, fighting to unite a nation. The Wraith only hinted at, a pressing shadow. Not spoken of explicitly. Like any good story should, it ends well, the upheaval cresting into the beginnings of a democracy. 

 _Stories are how people stay alive long after their bodies have withered._  The thought strikes him: Ronon is keeping Sateda alive by telling them this. All the libraries on Sateda have been burned to the ground: they have to record this, write it down. Yeah, he could make sure that these stories, like those of Athos, are preserved in Atlantis’ vast database. Her memory could easily store a whole civilization.

Eventually, it’s his turn, and his clears his throat. Isn’t much of a storyteller. Takes a sip of the hot cider.

There are some stories with happier endings than others. The refugee camps he’s been to, human relief missions, they’re bleak and hopeless and the fragility of the human race had become so extremely apparent. The rage of the world, the ceaseless fighting and these millions of souls caught in the middle of it, their lives interrupted. He’s seen the bombed cities. One time, he’d been called from the air to the ground. People busy and a village in ruins and he leaves the details vague because that was the year he, later, got trapped by the IED on the road, he and the team, and they were surrounded and MIA for three weeks, the op secret, no one looking for them. Another story.

This time, they’d dug out survivors from the wrecks of former homes, and in the rubble, the broken bones the cries the blood the mothers and fathers frantically searching for their children, they’d been at it for hours and John was flying the chopper to deliver the medics. Helped with the digging, because they were about to give up but then a tiny voice had wailed, it was just this little kid and their Dæmon was a sand cat, this rare beautiful creature; first time John saw one of those. A tiny thing, it was a little girl, she’d continued breathing despite it all. Got them out of there. They were in a bad shape, shrapnel torn into the young body but John flew them to the field hospital. Plenty of wounded, but no one died that day.

Why he can remember it so clearly: no one died that day.

Most other days weren’t at all like that.

(out here too: he seeks to make it so that there be all days   
when no one dies)

* * *

The rest of that night they spend awake, as if not aboard a giant Warship mostly echoing empty. Markham made sure to bring a deck of cards with him (always keeps them in his vest, he says, for emergencies), and turns out Stackhouse is a slick player of poker.

“Should’ve tried your luck in Vegas,” Sharpe says, and Stackhouse says very seriously: “Well, I did consider it.”

The minutes and the hours pass, and something soothing has settled over them all. Midnight strikes, Standard Atlantis Time, and they cheer, glasses ringing. Sharpe rigs a PDA, wiring into the Aurora’s internal comm system, and plays the usual medleys. The two marines exchange gifts, unwrapped: wooden box with finely carved pieces, a game similar to chess but with fewer distinctions which the Athosians have taught them, in exchanged for (and John thinks it’s got to be an inside joke or message) an ace of hearts card.

Teyla, too, bears gifts; she has, no doubt, something waiting for Ford, Rodney, Weir and Carson when they return. In the spirit, she even gives something to Ronon, which he accepts with bewildered grace, with the air of a man who isn’t used to being given anything, who still thinks the Tau’ri are strange and alien, their customs even more so, and that he never expected to be part of this. Unwrapping the tidily knotted cloth to find an Athosian dagger. Ronon is very pleased. Says: “I’ll use it reverently.”

“These were made in a forge in one of the old cities,” Teyla explains, handing John something similar. This one, he notices, has had another detailed added to the smooth handle: a tiny etching of a raven, and it makes him smile, and he thanks her the Athosian way, forehead gently resting against hers.

“I’ve got yours back the City,” John explains when he can’t present anything himself. There’s a secret package hidden under his bed in his quarters, lightyears and lightyears away. “Didn’t think you guys would be here tonight.”

“I thought so,” Teyla smiles. The Athosians are a people who regard the act of giving in far greater regard than receiving. “Then I will look forward to unveiling it with anticipation.”

At this point, Markham and Stackhouse have slipped away, and Sharpe has gone to her quarters to sleep. Kusanagi is yawning, struggling to keep her eyes open. Stands up eventually and says she’ll check on the ship’s system one more time, briefly, before going to bed herself. They turn off the music, but it’s not a bad silence that settles; instead, Teyla murmurs a melody from home, a kind which easily slots into place during a celebration, and John has heard it once or twice before, can recall enough to try and follow. 

They raise their glasses one more time, and think of the Daedalus approaching, carrying their friends and their team. End up sharing more stories, this time about AR-1, with Ronon (whom John has had to stop already from trying out his new shiny toy against the pristine walls of the Aurora; back in the City, in a range set up in the Citadel, he can go right ahead).

And the minutes and the hours pass;

Two days later, they set the course for Atlantis. Markham, Stackhouse, Sharpe and Kusanagi stay behind. The Daedalus is due to land soon, and John has got to be present for the landing; Teyla wants to be there too, naturally. The team is going to be reunited.

Rodney is coming home. A selfish thought, maybe. He’s not sure what Rodney considers to be home the most: Terra, or Atlantis. For some reason it’s uncomfortable to think about. Because to John, the answer is immediate and without doubt: Atlantis is home. Will always be. But Rodney … he can’t hear Her sing. He … he doesn’t have this Bond with the City.

But _they’ve_ got a Bond, still. He’s tried not to linger on it too deeply, unsure; Bonds like these appear sometimes among lovers, between husbands or wives, or between friends where there is no doubt whatsoever, only trust, only warmth. To think they truly share that is frightening. It implies something so honest and real that he can’t be sure it’s actually true, he doesn’t dare trust himself with the thought. Not until Rodney returns. They didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the Bond when it appeared, ninety-seven days ago;

(dangerous, like counting the minutes to midnight)

He returns, and Major Lorne takes a team of scientists and marines to continue the work on the Aurora. No rest. The finish line is weeks, months away. John spends the next couple of days getting back in the routine: cleans out the Office. Not much in there. He’s only sat by the desk with his laptop to review reports and play Tetris. It’s not his place, and he’s glad Weir’s on her way back to reclaim it.

The emails to and from the Daedalus are frequent and steady as clockwork. Seems like Rodney’s tinkering with the engines worked, because he happily announces their new ETA is twenty-four hours earlier and in intergalactic terms that’s a huge speed difference. And nothing blew up, which is a bonus. Ford updates him on the thirty-eight new marines. Three already formed teams and he and Bates have ideas for at least four more, but await John’s final decision. He plans some exercises, to get them in the loop. One day, sooner or later, they’ll be confronted with the Wraith.

(He wants them to be more prepared than he was. No Terran boot camp ever prepares you to face an alien enemy capable of sucking life out of your body with their bare hands.)

* * *

The evening they return, he hands Teyla the belated gift. She opens the package, eyes momentarily widening; “I thought we had run out of popcorn,” she exclaims.

“I might have pulled a few strings,” he says. Not mentioning he might have stashed away some. Some people do that with coffee. Besides, he knows how much she likes the stuff. The only Tau’ri foodstuff to her liking. That, and maybe some fruits she’s had the chance to try. Below the first layer, there’s a second:

“I see we had like mind,” Teyla chuckles and withdraws the twin  _banto’a_  rods from the wrapping. Another kind of weapon. These are sleek and black, the weight carefully balanced. Took forever to choose an appropriate pattern, subtle engravings which also provide extra grip. Gifts out here have to be deliberate and he knew she’d prefer something useful.

“Well, you cracked your old ones.” Quite painfully, in fact, because it was in a sparring match with him, and he blow landed on his back. Bruise took weeks to heal.

“I shall take care not to break these,” she says avidly, and turns to thank him like he did on the Aurora, forehead to forehead. The action can mean different things, so many different things:  _I’m here; good luck; we’ll see each other again; thank you._  Endless possibility of emotion;

* * *

And as the hours run dry and there’s nothing left to do but pace and wait and wait and wait. He runs along the West Pier and the Raven takes flight, circles unending. And he spends the evenings in Rodney’s lab, touches up on the equations which Rodney had so explicitly forbidden Radek and his team to tamper with. And he lies awake at night, unable to find rest, his heartbeat a little faster than it should be.

He’s nervous, and not a little bit afraid.

This is worse than waiting for the countdown for the Expedition to leave Terra. This is worse than his first tour, being shipped out into the unknown with the gnawing feeling that suddenly no flight simulations and no exercises ever could have lived up to reality and that he’s going to spend too much time so scared he becomes unfeeling, cold down to the bone. This is worse.

One last email.

Opening an empty file, he stares at the screen for a moment but can’t find the words. Cursor hovering. No subject. He writes: 

> _Hi Rodney. It’s_

Backtracking.

> _Hey there, Rodney. It’ll_

No.

> _Rodney,_

A pause. He tries, tries again. Why is this so damned hard all of a sudden?

> _~~It’s been~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~Came back from the Aurora two days ago w~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~It’s pretty boring in the City and~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~I can’t believe they kept you on Terra for so long to~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~I miss y~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~I don’t want to fuck this up. I want to make us work. But I’m terrified and don’t know if I can do this once you’re back and there isn’t three million lightyears between us~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~Rodney, come home~~ _ ~~~~

It’s all too cheesily predictable and he’s not sure if that’s him, or if these are words beyond him to form. If these emotions can be solidified. 

He powers down the computer without hitting send.


	15. minutes to midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _it’s been over three months, three far too long months of silence;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xv.**

# minutes to midnight

 _there’s nothing left to do but pace and wait and wait and wait._  

* * *

 **Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**    
**99 days after the Uprising**

* * *

 

A message is relied as dawn rises over the City towers. The Daedalus is inside Pegasus now, having left the infinite void between galaxies behind, and they’ve chosen to use the Gate on an uninhabited world rather than send a subspace burst. Just a little bit safer and less likely to be hijacked. The word is brief: the Daedalus is due to land in less than twelve hours; Rodney’s tinkering paid off, sped up the ship by a couple of percent.

Colonel Caldwell, on the other side of the video feed, appears wryly impressed of this feat. Feared the drives would be burned out. Weir is there too, and John raises two fingers to his forehead in casual salute. A brief report because there have been no accidents or incidents on either side. Heard nothing from the Genii. No Wraith Cullings. A moment of tranquility;

Twelve more hours.

Nothing more to say; the connection is cut, and the Daedalus leaps into hyperspace once more.

Rodney wasn’t there. For some reason both a disappointment and a relief, because after last night John’s not sure if he could stand before him acting casually detached and as if nothing’s changed between them, not give a clue to the witnesses. Surging emotion in his blood, making him feel a bit dizzy and hot. But he wasn’t there – Elizabeth said he’s sleeping. The odd schedule. There is no such thing as night or day in hyperspace flight aboard a ship with few windows. Time is all relative, anyway.

Preparations are already done. There’s a thrill of expectation running through the whole City; he can feel it. Everyone’s a little more energetic than usual, the chatter is changed in its intensity. A moment to reunite with friends, and also to make a first impression – to  _get_  a first impression – on all the new ones coming. Various personnel hand-picked by Weir, Beckett, and Rodney. And the marines, of course. John has uttermost trust in Ford’s ability to choose wisely – Ford may act like a kid sometimes, but he’s not a shiny newbie, far from it. Bates, too, had taken all details into account when announcing the names. John’s leafed through the files sent; no one had leapt up with familiarity, but they’re all marines, not people he’s mingled with in the past.

Histories of tours to various places an indicator. Some of them have been with the SGC for months or years; some are completely new to the works; three teams, SG-20, 21, and 23, already formed with a clear hierarchy. Their integration might be the easiest because they know the drill when it comes to Avalon, and all they’ve got to do is translate that. Teach them how to fight Wraith, rather than Goa’uld, and how the game is played in Pegasus. The others, John’s come up with a short list, based on experiences. If Major Lorne is truly planning on sticking around – and it seems that way now – he could form a team of his own. As the weeks have passed, John’s respect for the man as a fellow officer and pilot has grown. He handles the Jumpers well enough, with a still sense of awe (what pilot wouldn’t?) and subconscious skill, years-old muscle memory. With his various facets of skills and the gene, yeah, the guy’s an asset.

All of the thirty-eight new marines, and all of the new civilians, have been tested for the ATA-gene back on Terra. Only one came back positive, but Carson’s inoculated them all, and three more took to it. Got to train them to fly the Jumpers.  _Didn’t think I’d end up as flight instructor in another galaxy,_  the muse crosses his mind.

The hour draws ever closer. He hasn’t felt this jittery for a long, long time. Since he was a kid, fresh-faced from the Academy and desperate to prove himself. Since he was even younger, maybe, when he was fourteen with his first crush, all desperate and uncertain and unable to do much more than croak a whisper and blush; but it had passed quickly, and he hadn’t felt anything remotely similar for years and years. (Not even when meeting Nancy, even if they’d ended it as friends.) He’s not that kid anymore, but part of him feels like it.

The day passes by in a blur. There’ll be a feast tonight. The chefs are at work with preparing the food. People passing to and fro constantly in the inner parts of the City; everything moving forward and everyone is waiting. Everyone is waiting.

The day passes by;

* * *

The MALP images reveal a dense jungle, sunlight barely filtering through the leaves though the sensors indicate it’s daytime on P14-731. Data streams in: the planet turns slowly, thirty-hour cycles, its orbit is within the perfect habitable zone. Lifesigns somewhere in the vicinity, but too early to tell if that means humans or wildlife, or both. AR-7 is waiting on the steps for the go-ahead, which is given, and they step through the puddle as one. The wormhole folds in on itself and disappears. They’ll check back in in five hours; quicker if there’s a problem.

It’s the only team they’ve got out there today. After the Gate has shut down, Chuck dials another planet, and turns on the comms. The screen fills with a completely different image: the Bridge on the Aurora. 

The report from Kusanagi and Major Lorne holds no surprises, at least no bad ones. It’s slow work. Needing more spare parts and more pairs of hands at work. But progress nonetheless. The afternoon moves forward, and the day passes by;

* * *

(He goes back to the lab, once more. finds the unfinished email among the drafts, and considers: but the Daedalus will land soon. Soon. Cursor hovering for a time over the uncertain words  ~~come home~~  they sound far too clingy and desperate, and Rodney hasn’t sounded  _as_  desperate in his messages; would it be too much?, it’d be too much to let him see;

He presses delete.)

* * *

Five hours later, AR-7 dials back. 

Turns out that P14-731 is an inhabited world, containing a scatter of villages. A chance to gain allies. Anxiously living in the shadow of the Wraith, the people on ‘731 seem friendly enough, albeit slightly wary and they have to be. Too welcoming and they risk annihilation. Can’t lower the guard. Rutherford reports a thriving flora and fauna, an impressive jungle. Houses twisting around the treetops, under the heavy canopies; some kind of wildlife at ground level which could be deadly at night. The team will stay another couple of hours to talk with the chief of the village they’re in.

 _“They seem friendly enough, but I don’t think they’ve got much to trade for,”_  he rounds off.  _“They’re hunter-gatherers, don’t grow much food. And they don’t have any advanced tech.”_

Such a thing would attract the Wraith faster than anything. Better to lay low. To hope.

John nods. “All right. Return at 19:00, Lieutenant.”

_“Yes, sir. Rutherford out.”_

No grain to trade for, but there may be other things. AR-7 will take note of it they find it. He could take AR-1 there later, check it out, in that case.

He leaves the Control Room in the capable hands of MacGrimmon. Goes for a run, aimlessly;

* * *

The City is huge and they haven’t explored every nook and cranny, haven’t marked all of the rooms. He’s crossing a walkway, and there’s a tunnel leading down and through the lower levels so that, in case of rain, one could walk the entire way to the North Pier without getting wet. This part of the City isn’t as clearly mapped as the others, they haven’t set up shop here.

Feet thundering, John loses himself in the familiar comfortable rhythm of the run. This corridor is wide enough for the Raven to fly through;

The corridor – a couple of hundred feet in length – is lined by tall glittering windows on one side, and the fading sun gleams golden and pink as it gently appears to fall, the City towers casting long shadows. The first stars are blinking in the sky. The wall opposite is clean and empty; the Ancients weren’t big on decorating with art. The soothing endlessness;

He passes it by and nearly misses it.

_Wait._

Turns around, backtracks. Something, something: like a calling, he can’t put a finger on it. Slowing down, sweat pearling in his neck,

Is that – a door? There aren’t any crystals or a control panel next to it, and the design is different from the usual. There is no sharp threshold or panels: in fact, the seam is almost invisible, as if it’s simple a continuous wall, nothing of interest there. But now, now he sees it and wonders why he hasn’t before. 

What is this place?

He asks Her. But the answer is odd: [there is nothing here], insisting. The schematic is empty. There isn’t meant to be anything here. Frowning, John places a hand on the flat panel. Maybe it is just a wall, and the light played tricks on –

The wall folds in on itself.

_[Whoa. That’s different.]_

On instinct, John steps back warily drawing his handgun from the holster where he always keeps it. Waits for a moment; nothing leaps out of the shadows. Beyond, there’s a room, and the glow of nightfall reaches inside. Not much to see at first glance. The Raven comes to rest at his shoulder, and together they enter, weapon raised.

The room is rather small, but not cramped. One single console at the center with a viewscreen, and, next to it, a square raised dais, a foot or so tall, empty. Lanterns line the walls close the floor and the ceiling, two rows, but there are no windows. The lights blink on, sensing his presence, one after the other. Yet the glow remains dim as if unwilling, and the City keeps insisting that this room  _shouldn’t be._

That makes no sense. The City knows every room, every corridor …

Unless someone has locked it out of Her core memory.

(but why? who and when and why would they do that?)

The console is similar to the ones in the Control Room, the usual set-up. After a check around the room, John holsters his weapon again. Frowning. Not the first time they’ve stumbled on a secret room, a new discovery. There was the stasis pod they’d found the first year, with the alternative Weir and her Dæmon, trapped for ten thousand years in slow hope; but there is no stasis chamber here, nothing like that. Just the console. Experimentally, he hovers a hand over it, skims the words on the flat pieces of crystal seeking a way to turn it on. But he doesn’t need to touch it. His presence might’ve been enough.

Sharp lettering abruptly appears on the white screen. No numbers, just a short sentence:

_te declaro_

A password protected room – lab? Whatever it is. That’s new. Mostly, the Ancient seemed to think their genes were a safeguard enough against unwanted people accessing their technology. Obviously whoever was in charge here was of a second opinion; not that it’s necessarily bad. It might mean that whatever data found in these consoles might be pristine and intact and untouched.

John clears his throat. Maybe it just needs some kind of cue.  _Declare yourself:_  a name. “John Sheppard.”

Nothing happens. The screens remain dark except for those brief, blocked letters, packed tightly together in stark white.

Maybe not.  _[How about an actual password?]_  Shy suggests.

That might take weeks and months and years to figure out. No, there’s got to be an easier way.

“Maybe it’s a riddle?” John muses aloud. “Speak, friend, and enter.”

_te declaro_

Again he tries: “I’m John Sheppard from Terra.” Rank and affiliation would mean nothing to a ten thousand year old computer, but it might recognize the name of the planet. Would it help to say please?

But,  _oh!_  It’s Ancient. So – if … John groans and almost wants to hit himself for so blatantly missing the point. Taking a breath, he declares: “Ego Iohn Sheppard de Terra.”

 _[Maybe add a ‘we come in peace’?]_  Shy almost laughs, and John rolls his eyes but is more than ready to tack on something to the end of that sentence –

But he doesn’t have to. There’s a bleeping noise, slightly drowsy after centuries of unsure, and then the console starts to flicker. It’s activating and beneath his hands John feels the tiny warm vibrations of the tech answering both to his words and to his genes.

_Huh. It actually worked._

The screen turns from dark to light, and the words disappear to be replaced by streams of data, passing by rapidly like the computer core within the console is rebooting. Then it clears;

Right, so they’ve got a console of indeterminable purpose. If this is some kind of lab, there should be logs, data indicating what work took place here. Or, maybe, it’s the equivalent of a teenager’s diary - would explain the need of a password.

John presses a few buttons, experimentally; some of the design is pretty standard, but there are deviations too. He finds what’s the equivalent of a start-button; a switch that should typically show some kind of menu on the screen, or a list or contents, or a summary. This one, at least, is the same and the screen fills up with block letters. Skimming through it, a few words catch his eye:  _populo qui excedere_  –  _Obsidio Finalis_ –

The Last Siege.

A manifest of evacuees - the survivors of the Ancients’ long, final battle with the Wraith.

Like a message in a bottle;

The few hundred – perhaps there was a thousand but no one has ever known, before, the exact numbers or the names – of the Ancients who had fled to Terra in the last wave. If this contains their names, a reference … But it doesn’t look that way. This message isn’t an account leading onto a list of identities.

For some reason it’s difficult to look away from the screen as the text slowly scrolls downward:  _hic qua videum finalis_  …  _subo mare, abscondita ab Hostium,_   _nou Eius custodia, expectamus Progeniae …_

Waiting for the Descendants. The Descendants – that could mean anything: could mean the future generations of Ancients they had hoped to survive. Could have had the dream to return, one day, with a weapon to destroy the Wraith. The dream, like the one Captain Ephesia of the Aurora had, to not give up. But it hadn’t turned out that way.

It could mean humanity. Awaiting the Tau’ri; the ones who wrote the message could’ve met the timetravelling Elizabeth Weir, known that in at least one future humans will find the City under the ocean on Lantea and raise Her again, bring Her back to life.

John glances at his wristwatch. Should get a move on, hit the shower; the Daedalus is due to land within the hour. An approaching blip on the City sensors.

The room isn’t going to disappear. He could get back here in the morning and find out what it really means.

Pausing. Rodney and Weir will need to know about this, but first there’s the unloading and the unpacking and the greetings, and there’s another rush of nervousness and another emotion, more difficult to name. Butterflies, cliché helplessly true. It’s been months since he last heard Rodney’s voice in real-time and saw his face, not an image on a laptop but  **for real**  -

He powers down the console and leaves the secret chamber with a thought:  _later._

* * *

The Daedalus touches down on the edge of the East Pier four hours to midnight, and the deafening roar of the engines causes an updraft, stirring the quiet waters. Everyone’s watching, waiting, the balconies crowded. For a moment, they are one entity set against the other: the Lantean Expedition, gathered, and the strangers aboard that ship about to disembark, to tread on their land for the first time;

The Tau’ri craft is an impressive thing to have been made by human hands and human minds, measuring over seven hundred feet from stern to bow. Yet, in the shadow of the Ancient City, the vessel is a tiny thing, merely a speck of dirt in Her colors, and somehow it doesn’t belong. The design is wholly different. As it comes to a standstill, the thrusters making the final maneuver, it powers down and the light goes out, and silence falls over the Pier. Landing is a complex thing to do but now they can use the City’s shield or cloak, just in case.

Just in case.

There is no dazzling white light. They don’t use the power-consuming Asgard beam if they don’t have to, and plenty of people are at hand to carry the goods: weaponry, food and other supplies, medicines. Necessities. Some luxury items too, John’s sure, letters from Terra, personal packages.

He’s standing on the threshold to one of the outer buildings connected to the transporter system, AR-4 and AR-6 hovering in the background but for a moment John forgets all about them; peering toward the vessel, its height that of the smallest of the towers on the Pier, casting long shadows in the artificial lights. The moons move above unhindered, stars gleaming. It’s a clear night, slightly chilly.

 _[There!]_  Shy cries, and lets him see; they’re perched atop the nearest tower, and from here they could turn inward and see the City, millions of lights like pinpricks of gold, reflecting in the waters. Beauty breathtaking. But now they’re looking away from the City, to the Daedalus’ sizeable ramp lowering to meet the Pier. As it settles and the doors open, people stream through, laden with bags and cases of equipment. At the head of the line is Elizabeth, and from this distance it’s hard to tell the expression on her face, but her Dæmon moves with swift graceful steps. Relieved. Carson’s there by her side, and Rodney –

John’s heart stutters in his chest. Can’t help it. It’s been over three months, three far too long months of silence;

Ford and Bates reach him. No sign of Colonel Caldwell yet; perhaps he wants to run a final check on the ship after its long voyage, make sure there are no cracks in the hull. It’s what pilots prefer to do.

Ford’s grinning. Like that kid again, first time they met and John remembers it fondly, how Ford is just one of those people brightening the day. Can be serious too. Doesn’t take his responsibility lightly. He’s sans vest and weapons, but has pulled on his cover as has all the other marines, and salutes in greeting. John returns it. “About time, Lieutenant.”

“It’s good to be back, sir,” Ford says, smiling. Looks toward the Main Tower, the snowflake shape of Atlantis resting under the night sky but so full of light and life and movement. People are moving down to greet old friends and help with the unloading. “Wow, I nearly forgot how huge the City is.”

Sergeant Bates also salutes. John almost wishes they could stop that – protocol’s meant to be relaxed here – but out of the corner of his eye he spies Colonel Caldwell descending, and the curious gazes of the newcomers pausing to gape. The City  _is_  impressive, and John feels a surge of unwordable pride.

And finally, finally there’s Rodney. He’s in vivid discussion with Carson, waving his arms despite the bags hanging off both of them, and he nearly smacks a passing-by marine in the face without noticing. The guy manages to duck just in time, though. He looks – real. Just like himself, before. Meredith is running alongside, and directs him away from Carson. Can’t hear what they’re saying at this distance, but the MD chuckles, shakes his head, and pats Rodney’s shoulder before the astrophysicist turns his head and sees John there.

There’s no awkward wave of hand. A lopsided grin, and the Bond, which John has spent hours trying to decipher what exactly it means – now it floods with warmth.

John’s not sure whether he’s the one who moves closer, or the other way around, but then Rodney’s standing in front of him. Uncertain again – the constant movement of people nearby: should he offer a hand to shake, old friends do that but they’re not only that anymore;

Rodney makes the decision. “Missed me?” he asks brightly, and drops the duffel bag in his right hand to almost embrace him – a casual move, an arm around the shoulder. It’s brief, but firm, and it feels like the shadow of the touch might leave an imprint lasting forever.

And John would laugh and make a joke out of it, normally, but there’s a physical ache in his chest, his gut, and he can’t believe how nervous he is. Never felt this way before. This deeply and seriously and without doubt, and it’s on the edge of overwhelming and petrifying. So he accepts the hug and murmurs across the Bond:  _You’ve got no idea._  Never tried to form words before, but Rodney and Meredith hears him and stutter slightly, as if embarrassed and possibly just as terrified. Then the arm releases its grip, and it’s … it’s almost like normal again. They find the rhythm.

“Didn’t actually think Colonel Caldwell would let you tinker with the engines,” John remarks, taking the dropped bag because Rodney’s moving on as if completely forgetting about. A slip of mind.

“He wasn’t that happy,” Rodney admits. “Kept glaring and asking Hermiod for a risk assessment. As if I’d blow up the Daedalus while I’m on it!” He shakes his head. “And it worked, of course. I’ve studied the engines down to the last circuit. I worked on the design of the BC a bit myself, you know, before the Expedition.”

“And you didn’t have them name the ship  _The Rodney McKay_? Wow. Didn’t think you’d be that humble.”

“Oh, my ego isn’t  _that_  large.” John just laughs, and Rodney pokes at his elbow rather rudely but it’s all right. “Now the Aurora, that’s something I’m looking forward to working on. Reports and pictures only give so much satisfaction.”

“We would’ve had it gift-wrapped if we could.”

“Speaking of which: no more spacewalks for you,” Rodney reminds him sternly, and there is true worry in his expression, and a hint of something dark across the Bond as if – as if Rodney had been more than annoyed when hearing the news. The concern genuine and deep and lasting, and John wants to step closer, wants to offer a hand or do  _something_  but he can’t with all these people around, without bearing surprised suspicion. To a lot of eyes, Rodney is still a huge pain in the ass: egoistical, arrogant, possessing no social skills. They haven’t seen other sides of him. And for John to get too close, especially with Colonel Caldwell and other unknowns around - no, they wouldn’t get it, and a whisper might reach General Landry or some other sour brass back on Terra that he’s a bit too close to a guy, and that wouldn’t end well.

Doesn’t stop him from feeling the urge. 

* * *

(too preoccupied,  
the thought of the secret room slips his mind completely)

* * *

They move toward the nearest building with a transporter. This is going to take a while, with over a hundred pairs of humans and Dæmons, not to mention all of the equipment cases. The Daedalus has brought more: raw material to begin repairs of the hull of the Aurora. Nowhere near enough, but it’s a start.

As the queue is forming, Weir and Carson walks up to them. John anticipates the movement and accepts a second and third hug for the day, and keeps his voice happy and bright and it’s not false, not now with Rodney here, with the world turning back to normal.

There’ll be a party tonight to celebrate the turn of the New Year on Terra – still a remarkable thing, out here. And the Daedalus has landed, brought gifts. Any excuse to light the fires.

The debriefings will wait until tomorrow morning. 

Elizabeth is carrying a heavy backpack and a crate is hanging between her and Beckett. Medical equipment, Carson explains. The infirmary in Atlantis is fancy enough with the Ancient tools they have at hand, but sometimes he could use the old-fashioned Tau’ri stuff.

“How was flight?”

“I’d gladly never be stuck in one of those tin cans again,” Carson says with a shake of head. “I’m glad I’m not claustrophobic.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agrees. “It’s disconcerting to spend so long in hyperspace.”

As senior staff, they get precedence to the transporters, one of those small luxuries. Would have been useful if the Ancients had built them bigger rather than the size of closets. After Weir and Carson have gone, he and Rodney cram in there with boxed stapled on one another in no particular order, and as the doors close the quietness is apparent. Slightly stifling and an easy invitation for awkwardness. Light envelopes them, and then they’re in the City’s tallest Tower, on nearly the highest level. A lot of noise on the other side: several AR-teams have formed a line, and bags and crates are passed along down to areas of storage. Sifting through it all will wait until tomorrow, after the sun has risen.

Teyla is waiting in the Control Room, the City’s hub of operations. She greets them the Athosian way, no order of rank, everyone is as important. John hangs back for a little while as Rodney, mouth working at a hundred miles per minute, pauses briefly in speaking as his forehead touches hers. The Athosian smiles mildly. Then he’s at it again, and inspects the consoles and the folks at work with sharp eyes.

Dr Zelenka is waiting there too, armed with a PDA loaded with scientific reports and the newest data from projects – the Aurora, mostly, but also other research. Hands it over with a knowing look and adjusts his glasses: “Good to have you back, McKay.”

“Yes, yes, you too. Now tell me what you’ve messed up so I can fix it,” the offhand remark, so familiar; it’s as if Rodney’s never left, and he slots right back into his role, his place, his person, there is no issue. Weir and Ford and all the others – once the chaos has settled, it’ll be as if they haven’t been gone at all.

Except for all the rookies around the corner, of course.

“No mess up, Rodney,” Radek says, patiently. Dæmon restless by his feet. “See for yourself.”

Studying the PDA intensely for a minute. “Hmm. Well. Yes. Good – maybe someone will get a gold star.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth suggests, “we could wait with working until tomorrow.”

“I’ve been waiting for  _months_  to get back to my lab! Oh, there’s going to be a big party, isn’t there? And everyone’s invited. All right. As long as I don’t need to hold a speech.”

“Don’t think anyone needs to do that,” John remarks with a chuckle.

* * *

In hindsight, that’s not quite true;

Elizabeth pulls him aside, warningly, before the night is over and John thinks, briefly:  _this is it._  She’s going to announce that Colonel Caldwell is taking over as CO; a right, given his rank. John is acutely aware that, as a Major, he’s not meant to be in this position. Or she’s about to proclaim some other bad thing, orders from the IOA or General Landry or whoever. But all she says is that there’s a military ceremony to be held, dress blues required. Tomorrow at 11:00 SAT.

“I’m not getting demoted?” he asks, pleads to know. “At least tell me Caldwell isn’t taking over.”

She simply smiles: “No, don’t worry, John. It’s nothing like that.”

* * *

An hour later – swiftly, involving a lot of teamwork – the Daedalus is emptied. Original Expedition members have taken to showing the newbies around in small groups, just the immediate areas. Instructions of where to park and how to find their quarters, rooms they can make their own. A more extensive tour will come tomorrow. John doesn’t bother too much, glad when Bates handles it. Too busy just staring at Rodney’s face with the realization sinking in finally that he’s here, he’s here, he’s **real** –

Song rises throughout the City. The Athosians are dancing to the steady drums. Those who know how to play have taken out their instruments, and there’s drinks and food going around. The City is alive, so alive and She is pleased, a hum: there hasn’t been these many lifesigns on the move inside the City walls for a long time. Since the Ancients evacuated to Terra, ten thousand years ago;

He walks around with the Raven on his shoulder, and notices the glances. The new people, they may have heard the rumors. Not believed a Strangeling to truly exist. John lets them be. They’ll get used to it. Have to. He doesn’t owe them explanations.

Instead he takes part in the festivities, for a while; lets it wash over him and soaks in the light. Lets Teyla draw him into one of the traditional Athosian dances – his steps aren’t perfect, this take of thing takes years to learn well, but the swell and fall of the music runs through his blood, and it’s good. This community and sense of  _wholeness._  he moves, a flurry, and it’s a complex dance. Similar to sparring. Could knock out someone’s teeth if they’re not careful of the neighboring bodies. Ford joins in too, and several of the old AR-teams. The context new yet completely familiar. A clear relation to  _banto’a,_  this dance. Ronon Dex joins in too – behaved impeccably when introduced to Weir and the others. Deadly and adept.

Rodney watches from the sidelines, chewing on a sandwich. Mutters an excuse not to move his feet (an ache in his knee; a bad back; the usual) and John chances throwing him a grin, and is returned with a fond shake of head, speaking for itself:  _you do that, flyboy, I’ll be right here._

Afterward, John returns to his side breathless. Finds Rodney holding up a camera to catch it all on tape.

“Make sure you caught my best angles.”

A roll of eyes: “I’ll take the worst bits and plaster them over the intranet.” (an empty threat)

The dance is still ongoing. Will remain in one form or another for possibly the whole night. One or two brave curious souls among the newcomers dare to try it themselves – are welcomed into it, Teyla and Halling smiling, explaining the forms over the roaring drums. Rodney withdraws; too much noise – John loses sight of him, but isn’t worried. Their Bond is stable and calm. If anything was up, he’d let him know.

* * *

Elizabeth is watching from the bannisters above. Adrenaline soaring: happy to be back, but now the voyage’s taking its toll. When John finds her, they don’t small talk, nothing much to say. Share a toast of champagne, Terran stuff which the Daedalus had brought with it, perfectly chilled. John can’t help but glance over his shoulder, and the Raven tries to spy the right face among the masses but there’s no sign of Rodney.

Colonel Caldwell is there too; a bit aloof. Tired, he reckons, after the long journey. Would’ve been ready and tense the whole way. Waiting to leap into action in case of an emergency, an attack, an early drop-out from hyperspace. His Dæmon is very still, almost ragged. Yeah, it’s been a long journey.

They exchange salutes and nods of respect. John thinks he’ll spend the next week doing a lot of that, if the rookie marines haven’t already gotten the hint that Atlantis is … it’s pretty unique. Relaxed (but not in the face of danger). The patters hold steady, but some details are more important than others. He’s never been much a fan of throwing weights around unnecessarily, but knows not to let up completely. That would only cause worry and uncertainty, a loss of balance. The military functions that way. Need to know where they stand.

Conversation is stiff, and John couldn’t quite the shake the feeling, this feeling, he can’t place it – but he forces his attention elsewhere as Caldwell excuses himself quite early from the feasting.

They watch him go. The man will spend the night aboard the Daedalus, no doubt. The ship is his base, as the City is theirs.

After a while, Elizabeth says: “Well, I think I’ll go to bed.” She’s spent the night reuniting with so many people, so swiftly and loudly after so many hours of silent calm, and she probably has a headache. The beat of drums go on and on: Lieutenant Kemp is on the floor, now, doing a very enthusiastic interpretation of the dance along with a couple of the Athosians, Kemp’s team cheering him on or possibly berating him.

The senior staff meeting isn’t scheduled until 10:00 SAT tomorrow. John lingers for a moment more. Makes a point to chat with Bates and Ford. Can’t find Carson; the guy might’ve retired too, or been swept away into another part of the City. The Gate Room isn’t the only place alive with light and music. They’d have set off fireworks if they had any and if the explosions mightn’t have attracted unwanted attention.

As midnight crawls closer, John turns to the open doors. Lets the City dim the lights. 

This walk isn’t an aimless one;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **te declaro** declare yourself  
>  **Ego Iohn Sheppard de Terra** I am John Sheppard of Earth  
>  **populo qui excedere** the people who left/evacuated  
>  **Obsidio Finalis** The Last Siege  
>  **hic qua videum finalis** the final place of our legacy  
>  **subo mare, abscondita ab Hostium, nou Eius custodia, expectamus Progeniae** under the sea, hidden from the Enemy, we protect Her [while] awaiting the Descendants


	16. (and i’ve) never met a man like you before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the world is narrowing down to this one moment, all of spacetime this one room and their two souls and nothing else, before after since;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-08-22) This is where the fic earns its M-rating. There's smut and it's only the second time I wrote it, so, yeah. The titles of [this chapter](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/johnnycash/inevermetamanlikeyoubefore.html) as well as chapter 14 ([i would like to see you again](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/johnnycash/iwouldliketoseeyouagain.html)) were both inspired by Johnny Cash lyrics, which I thought fitting given John’s taste in music (which is a given in any universe).  
> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xvi.**

# (and i've) never met a man like you before

_the world is narrowing down to this one moment, all of spacetime  
this one room and their two souls and nothing else, before after since;_

* * *

The further away from the Gate Room he gets, the quieter the night settles.

Rodney had lingered for a while to say the necessary hellos, but this kind of socializing isn’t really his thing and John knows without having to reflect on it where he’s gone. The steady rising of the drums still echo in his bones.

Takes a walk four levels down from the Gate Room, where the people have amassed, through the familiar maze of corridors. The door to the lab is open, and Rodney is unpacking rapidly. Four computers already up and running. John leans against the doorframe for a moment, watching; simply watching, the lamplights catching a glow in Rodney’s dark hair and the concentrated slope of his chin and he’s multitasking, uncoiling a wire and typing with his left hand. Meredith’s resting on the wide desk, head on her paws; and they both look up as he approaches. 

Wouldn’t have done that a year earlier. Their instincts have been honed, to warn them against danger and it’s a saddening realization, somehow. That before, before all this, before the Wraith, Rodney would never have been suspecting foul play or danger in his own lab. Would have laughed at the idea of carrying a gun. Now he’s got a 9mil strapped in his thigh holster, and he knows how to use it.

(a disconcerting notion: the world isn’t a safe place, might  _never_  be   
a safe place)

“Hey.”

“Someone’s completed my equations,” Rodney says and looks up. Eyes narrowing minutely.

John shrugs innocently.

“All right, so don’t tell me how or when or who, Major Could’ve-Been-Mensa. Let me call Radek and congratulate him on this sudden insight of brilliance.”

They both know it won’t happen. Unless Rodney wants to annoy Zelenka by implying that either he broke the warned rule not to mess with his lab, or taunt him that some flyboy possesses more brains than his department. Can’t be quite ruled out.

“Wow, that’s the highest praise anyone’s ever gotten from you,” John chuckles. Leans against the desk for a second, glancing over the stacks of papers and coffee cups – Rodney’s had one already and disposed of it carelessly, balancing dangerously close to the edge, and an enthusiastically waving hand could easily have it tumbling down to the floor to shatter. Past that, to the filled whiteboards.

Rodney ceases the typing and puts down the yet unwrapped piece of wire, places it in an open case. There’s a certain twitching energy, his breathing’s a bit fast and John sees it, feels it. If it’s their Bond gaining strength or if it’s the strength of the emotions, he can’t tell.

Can Rodney sense, just as clearly, his heartbeats?

Last time they were in this room together, they were alone, the two of them and their Dæmons and John remembers the searing heat   
the kiss the –

“Can’t wait until tomorrow to finish that?” he suggests, hopes his voice is as steady as he imagines it to be.

Rodney’s gaze is so so familiar and there’s something unspoken, and it’s almost a challenge; John accepts. Like an agreement, explicit words unnecessary across the Bond to make things clear and they both move –

  _I missed you,_  said with a touch, and John’s hand curls around the back of Rodney’s head and they pull each other in. It’s messy and hot and wet, and the kiss lasts for half an eternity;

“Let’s take this someplace else,” Rodney murmurs against his jawline. Hands on his waist. Yeah, definitely like he’s that kid again with a first crush, John decides; and they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. A cliché he’s never believed in until now;

Maybe it’s the buzz from the feast, the lingering music and alcohol and celebratory voices, the elation. The closeness of Rodney’s hands is definitely real real real and John’s been afraid of it all being a dream, some kind of illusion;

* * *

Stumbling out of there, to a transporter. Rodney’s quarters lie further down, a secluded corner, and everyone else is busy dancing and doesn’t notice them slipping away through the corridors, and John knows the City will keep this secret safe. Mask lifesigns, make them appear to be elsewhere, separated, during the night. He dares to lean against Rodney’s side and nearly cup a hand in his. Maybe he’s a little drunk on the Athosian wine.

Rushing through the doorway, and it slips closed behind them with a click and a sigh. Rodney’s mouth is on his again, and they melt against one another. Soft moonlight filters through the wide windows. They don’t bother to turn on the lights. Not consciously. A flicker – can’t stop it, the City responding to his gene and his rushing emotions – as John’s pulse speeds up, a stutter in his breath and they’re trying to move more slowly. Differently from the last – the first – time, when it had been all heat and haste and desperation.

Pausing to breathe. John’s foot knocks against something dropped on the floor, and Rodney pushes it away to make room. Hands exploring. Like creating a map; jackets unbuttoned and unzipped, falling to the floor one by one. Languidly.

Time is meaningless. There is no such thing, in here they have all the time they need they want;

Haven’t been this close before. Seen the birthmarks and the scar without hindrance. Rodney kisses the scar from the Iratus bug on his throat softly, and John has always avoided looking at it, avoided thinking of that moment, of dying in the Jumper – and the Bond is alight with fire, in remembrance. The panic. The flaring panic fading empty line. Now Rodney is trying to erase that, make it something new, something better. Carefully, John cradles Rodney’s wrist in his hand as arms are bared. Traces upward, finding a slight indention on his shoulder – can’t recall the mission that might have made such a mark and frowns momentarily.

“Subcutaneous transmitter,” Rodney murmurs; John vaguely remembers the memo of the new requirement, something all SGC personnel is going to be equipped with sooner or later, and nods distractedly. Kisses the spot too like marking territory and lets him pull off his shirt, one button at the time and it falls away. A shudder at the gentle caress, a brush of thumb across his pectorals and downward. Hardness insistently brushing against his own, eliciting a moan.

Curls his fingers under the hem of Rodney’s grey t-shirt. Not BDU issued; print proclaiming ‘I’m with genius’. The old favorite, causing him to laugh.

“What?” a breath in the shell of his ear;

“Nothing. Just – I’m a genius, huh?”

A fond roll of eyes. In response, a hand tugs at the zipper of his pants and he’s on fire, and the movement is the same as last time –  _the first time_  – the memory remains crystal clear, each emotion each breath each touch and it comes back to him now in a blink. There’s a moment of hesitation, as if asking for permission to proceed.  A slight struggle as the fabric tangles as they together pull it over his head, nearly causing a rip, and Rodney grumbles – something about poor manufacturing quality – and John laughs, draws him in for another kiss.

Rodney’s touch is like a burn, hot and close, so so good it almost hurts. A mouth possessively closing over his own; hands tangling in hair, constantly moving travelling like a journey and each body presents the new land to be mapped out, and John kicks off his boots – tries to, anyway, but they’re laced too tight and he nearly stumbles and falls, dragging Rodney down with him.

“Hang on,” a murmured order. Layer by layer;

Boots off, he helps Rodney with the same and, a sudden impulse, kisses the top of a bare foot. A teasing nudge.

A belt tugged open, tossed aside. The process is heated but not rushed, not stressed. The need is something slower, a flame rising steadily but no risking vanquishing if they don’t hurry. The world is narrowing down to this one moment, all of spacetime this one room and their two souls and nothing else, before after since;

Not just desire of touch pounding in his heart. Getting the last button undone, they press together and John wants to touch and sense and explore each inch of skin, and he kisses the beautiful curl of Rodney’s lip. Like wings on his shoulder blades, two hands rest there for a moment the ridges of his calloused palms telltale evidence of years of work and the recent months of learning to fire a gun. Pale skin smooth and there are so few scars, John wants to find every little bump and mark and kiss them.

Rodney whispers: “Shouldn’t be allowed to be this good-looking.”

“Could call the police,” John teases, grinding against him.

“And have you locked away? Don’t think so.”

The hands move, inside the lining of his pants. Pushing them off and they take a step back – unsure which one of them began and who finished the thought – finding the bed, unmade and the covers drawn. The soft mattress bears their weight like on a cloud, Rodney’s climbing atop of him and unhurriedly share a kiss and another and another;

He tastes sweetly, just a hint of it, tantalizingly. They pause for breath, these intervals of being one sharing a pulse. The quiet of the night is like a spell and they are caught. 

John presses gently the heel of his palm against his hardness, and Rodney groans – a grunt of  _more_  – and he does it again, more firmly, wraps his hand around his cock to stroke. Asks if it’s all right. Hasn’t done this before not really – thinks Rodney is aware of that on some level, seemed aware of it the first time. Maybe the Bond; it’s a glow, there aren’t words enough to make a mark anywhere close to reality. The sensation is slightly alien, the memory of the first time hanging like a drape over his mind and that time they hadn’t unclothed, and he hadn’t really  _looked._ Rodney is heavy and hot in his palm, and the dark hair around the base slightly coarse and rough against his knuckles. 

And Rodney is mirroring the action, causing his back to arch and breath is driven from his lungs. Noise; he’s the one making it, he realizes, he can’t be all beautifully quiet but Rodney doesn’t seem to mind; smiles:  _you like that?_

Grinding together, moving together, without hurry. John’s toes are curling on their own volition, and this, this is the true elation, he savors Rodney’s climbing voice as he gasps. Speeds up the rhythm. A pause in the kisses, mouth travelling down; a whisper of morning stubble. Rodney usually so diligent about being clean-shaven, and it tickles a bit. John breathes heavily, the press of a tongue gently around his nipple and lower, and they’re shifting, his hand loses its grip. Grasps for anchorage and Rodney is the harbor. Finds a shoulder to hold on to.

Kisses trailing over his bellybutton. A nudge to raise his legs slightly and another kiss, to the inside of his thigh; Rodney caresses the white raised scar above his knee with a thumb; another on the left side of his bellybutton; one after the other. “Don’t remember these,” a question;

“Tell you later,” John whispers, doesn’t want to think about Iraq or Afghanistan or –

He forgets to breathe for a second; wet warmth the sensation overwhelming in its simplicity and he’s had dreams like these and woken shivering and terrified and alone; this isn’t a dream this isn’t a dream this isn’t a

“Rodney –”  _oh oh god oh_

This isn’t just a brief encounter, emotionless and lustful and quick, this is  _more_  and there’s something extremely fierce in this emotion. John scrambles for purchase, fists knotting in the sheets. Struggles not to lose control completely, muscles contracting and aching trying to keep still. A hand rests splayed on his belly and the other – oh, he might be feverish, so hot and wanton – Rodney’s lips softly forceful, John is shivering, all the way from his spine, deeply lingering and he might be riding a high of bliss and euphoria, blood singing in his veins;

(the lights flicker; neither of them notice)

The hint of a touch that is entirely new, his thumb ghosting over the sensitive skin of his perineum and lower, and John tenses, involuntarily, a reflex. Rodney stops to look up at him, concernedly: “Too much?”

Breathlessly: “A bit. Yeah.” He doesn’t need to demand anything or explain or apologize, Rodney removes the touch,  _hey it’s okay_ , and maybe later, some other time - this is still foreign territory, and John’s not sure how many steps they can take in one hour, one day.

_(there will be more, there will be more)_

When Rodney withdraws, breaths heavy, they’re both trembling and he climbs back up, noses bumping against one another. And John wants to  _give,_  not only receive. Show him that he’s beautiful. Rodney moves slightly self-consciously, wants him to look at his face nowhere else, and John pulls him closer. Legs entwined, shuffles them over so he’s on top. A groan but no protest. This kiss tastes differently, and John looks at him, silently asking  _is this all right?_

A moment frozen in time; outside of spacetime itself;

He looks up, moonlight stretches across the room and follows the curve of Rodney’s belly and chest and the lines of his face; and John has a moment of clarity: he has never seen Rodney like this before, this level of trust and devotion, never seen him like this before, his eyes slightly glazed and eyelids heavy with pleasure.

“Can I?” he asks, quietly, he’s never done this before, he could mess it up completely - and Rodney groans,  _yes yes yes_ , a hand clumsily tangled in John’s hair, fingertips brushing the sharp tip of his ear.

Experimentally, starting at the base, a kiss. Opens his mouth wider. Heart’s pounding a hundred miles per minute and the nervousness has set in again, tries to reign it back, breathe. Rodney’s cock is heavy and thick, and he too is fighting to keep calm and still; makes the loveliest noises, parts of forgotten melodies of encouragement spurring him on. Texture’s foreign on his tongue, musky, heady, and his pulse is racing,  _I’m really doing this this is happening this is_   **real**  – Using his right hand, he strokes the swollen tip, tries to learn how he likes it. Downward. A little firmer. Part of him terrified to get this all wrong; he exchanges the feathery kisses to taking the tip in his mouth, and Rodney whines, a sound almost inhuman and the Bond is demanding  _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop –_

Doesn’t dare to take too much of him at once, doesn’t think he can; presses the hand a little tighter around the root. Motions. Rodney’s hand in his hair, thumb moving in circles, fingers shifting restlessly. Nothing of Rodney is quiet and still any longer, he’s on the verge. Hips bucking, helplessly, and then he fumbles to apologize,  _oh fuck_   _did I hurt you?_  and John reassures him, jaw aching a little and he pulls back to breathe. Rodney spread out before him in a halo of starlight, leg muscles flexing constantly and he sits up on his elbows, urging them together in another kiss. John climbs toward him, straddles his thighs, lengths pressing together. John’s breath hitches.

Ablaze, orgasm overtakes him and burying his face in the nape of Rodney’s neck, the scent familiar and his and Rodney’s whispering his name, rolling their hips in tandem. The rising magnitude. A hand still in his hair and the other, palm clammy with sweat and need, grasping at his ass, a searing burn. Like a seizure, claiming him in waves; he feels Rodney’s full-body shudder and his release, sudden wetness on their bellies.

Holding each other like that for a time after, exchanging a few lazy kisses; it could’ve been an hour or a day, a piece of eternity.

John moves when a cramp starts building up in his leg, rolling to lay on his side instead, ending up facing each other, Rodney’s leg lazily thrown across John’s hip. And in the afterglow, sated and breathing together; Rodney traces softly words against his shoulders, whispers trailing his skin;

The statement is out of the blue. “Two thousand three hundred and nineteen hours.” 

A tug at his heartstrings. If that’s what it is, it feels  _right,_  warmth like from fire reaching from the inside out. “You counted?”

“You didn’t?”

John silences, hides a smile. Cannot deny it. Like a big romantic sap, helplessly so; unable to let it go. Counted the minutes to midnight. They curl up together, as close as physically possible;

* * *

This night neither of them walks through any nightmares.

* * *

John wakes up feeling momentarily disorientated.

The light falls into the room from the wrong angle; the wide windows, they’re on the right-hand side instead of the left. Something different with the air, too. And this warmth he hasn’t known before; he opens his eyes fully. A weight, so utterly familiar in its closeness, its ease, as if this is the way it’s always been – Rodney’s arm is sprawled over his side, and sometime during the night he must’ve turned though he can’t remember it, Rodney spooned around his back. Meredith is curled up by their knees, wedged in the hollow space comfortably and she’s purring, a low minute sound of utter contentment; the Raven perches by the foot of the bed, an image of sleep.

Never took off his dog tags and now a hand is gripping them almost possessively, and John glances over his shoulder. Rodney’s eyes are partway open, eyelids heavy. This expression is so open and vulnerable, utterly relaxed, unlike how Rodney usually lets himself be seen.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Morning.” Word mouthed onto his shoulder, followed by a kiss at the center of the back of his neck. 

The digital alarm clock on the bedside table shows 08:13 SAT in vivid red. John can’t recall sleeping in like this for a long time. Will for once skip the morning jog.

It takes a while for either of them to move. When he does, his bones feel heavy and muscles aching, the aftermath of exhaustion and pleasure, but his head feels clear and he looks at Rodney with a kind of joy which is frighteningly sharp and overwhelming.

“Shower,” he murmurs. Can’t show up at the senior staff meeting like this.

The meeting is at nine thirty, and Rodney tightens his embrace. “Plenty of time …”

Shifting to face him, the rustle of sheets; like youths with a first crush, he thinks, and they are, could be, he hasn’t felt like this before. Always been slow to love, thinking he could never commit when he didn’t have a Dæmon because such a secret could ruin all bonds, and who would fall for a Strangeling anyway? Hasn’t felt arousal before a certain depth of emotion. Hasn’t had a word for it, either, a label. Maybe he ought to tell Rodney about Nancy someday, about the Marriage That Almost Was. Not now, though. He doesn’t want to ruin anything. 

Eventually, when time does get more pressing and both their bodies growlingly demands something to eat, they untangle themselves. With a subconscious thought, a window slides open a bit and the morning wind causes the curtains to flicker. Fabric from Balkan, making the room seem a bit more lived in. John hasn’t been in here that much before – no reason to do so – and there’s a desk, he sees now, hadn’t known Rodney used it because he spends most of his time in the lab when not on missions. A datapad and four empty coffee cups and stacks of papers, and there are two whiteboards, too, for flashes of brilliance in the middle of the night to be captured. That and the chair and the bed are the only pieces of furniture. A couple of black and silvery cases of various sizes are stacked in a corner, one of which over six feet in length. No doubt something for one of his projects.

Rodney patters out of bed, and John lingers for a while. Listens to the running water. Then he throws off the covers, the lonely morning chill causing him to shiver, and he rifles for his clothes strewn about on the floor, most of it inside-out. Pauses for a moment, but before he can tug on his pants to escape to his own quarters, Rodney’s asking his name – like knowing his thoughts, their Bond so open to perceptions of emotion.

“Oh, get in here,” he calls through the open doorway to the bathroom. “I can hear you thinking, and you can’t walk through the City like that – have you  _seen_  your bed-hair? Though it’s not that different from usual. The gossipers would have a field day.”

And John chuckles, a sudden relief releasing the tightening of his chest. “Wow, you’re bossy.”  _No surprise there;_

He walks into the adjoining room, the floor slightly glossy and the glass cubicle is pale and misty, Rodney’s silhouette beyond unmistakable, and as he turns to look, bright blue eyes inviting, John tries to shake the heavy self-consciousness. After last night, he wants to be at ease, and Rodney does too. They’re both  _trying._

The water is at perfect temperature, splashing against his calves. It’s somehow completely natural, this, the awkwardness passes quickly. Maybe it’s the missions. They’ve faced dangers together and spent so many hours in each other’s shadow, bunked in the Jumper during cold starless nights side-by-side, and all of these ordinary extraordinary things makes this seem – not mundane, but ordinary, and they don’t need to be ashamed or afraid of each other. At one point, the massaging of shampoo into scalps turns into another kind of massage and the shower ends up taking quite a while. They grab the towels while exchanging slippery kisses.

While John is drying off he realizing he’s got no spare clothes, lamenting that he’s got to discretely get down to his quarters at the Citadel to fetch a toothbrush – Rodney’s cupboard is packed, but not prepared for guests. Borrows the electric razor, though. When he looks at himself in the mirror, the man staring back is at least somewhat orderly, a hint of color on his cheeks, a glow to his eyes; a physical manifestation of happiness. His steps are lighter than they have been for months. 

Returns to the bedroom. Rodney’s half-dressed, an urge of temptation: to touch his face, those strong hands again, feel them on his thighs; 

“Here.” A bundle is shoved into his arms. “These might fit.” Socks, boxers, and a black t-shirt he unrolls to see a schematic of the Death Star proudly proclaimed. Never seen him wear this, surprisingly enough, though Rodney does try to keep a semblance of professionalism in front of his fellow scientists. Most of them have a hard time enough enduring being labeled as dry and boring geeks by the marines.

“I might want to keep this one,” John laughs as he pulls the garment on. A bit big for him. Once he’s zipped up the jacket, no one’s got to know.

Rodney looks at him approvingly. “Major, you’re a huge dork.”

(The genuine fondness in his expression makes him shiver. This is  **real**.

If this is love, then he’s probably become addicted.)

Another glance at the time as he fastens his wristwatch, and John’s just about finished lacing up his boots: one minute to nine. The diligent must already have had their breakfast and be waiting in the Conference Room, nursing coffees and catching up on events. The Aurora’s due to check in in an hour, the regular time, unless something unexpected happens.

Time is moving and will remain moving, John’s heart sinks a little, wondering, wondering suddenly how this is going to work. How they’re meant to go outside of this room and pretend that they’re friends and teammates and they can’t hold hands or sneak kisses or touches or anything, they can’t share words aloud. It’s not fair, especially not on Rodney. He hasn’t got military regulations to care about, and if he was anyone else –

He looks at him, has to voice it somehow. How they’re going to tackle the aftermath.

“Well, you know, I’m sure one day Elizabeth will change the rules,” Rodney says, tries to be uplifting. “Even if the Earth doesn’t. But they will, one day, of course they will. This isn’t the Dark Ages anymore, though not everyone’s realizing it.”

(is there even a word for what they are now?)

“Yeah, maybe.” But he’s rarely been that optimistic, and sudden guilt flashes through his body. This isn’t fair on Rodney at all.

He stands, checks one last time that it’s not too obvious how they’ve spent the night. The deep ache of satisfaction hasn’t faded. “You go first. I’ll be by the mess in a minute.” he says, pointedly. Can’t be seen leaving this room together. The City’s already helped them, masked the presence of the extra lifesigns of John and his Raven in this room for the night, creating an illusion. Just in case. People would notice, otherwise, remark that someone, apparently, spend the night with Rodney, and questions aren’t something either of them could face right now and lie to.

“Right. Right,” Rodney mutters. Pauses before the closed doors. “Uh, see you then.”

This kiss, though swift, isn’t unexpected – a peak of the graph. They part reluctantly. Then Rodney palms the control panel and he and Meredith slip out, their gait steady and a bit stressed, and he heads for the nearest transporter. The doors close, and he’s out of sight, and John takes a few deep breaths. Closes his eyes. 

Time to face the dragons.

 


	17. homeland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _can’t remember last time someone was that proud of him;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xvii.**

# homeland

_can’t remember last time someone was that proud of him;_

* * *

**Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**   
**January 1, 2006 (Terran time) · 100 days after the Uprising**

* * *

They part unwillingly.

Duties once they’ve had breakfast; first the staff meeting, and the obligatory ceremony everyone’s been called for at 11:00 hours. Then they both have their tourist tours to look forward to. Well,  _look forward to_  – not so much. Still a duty, though. Rodney’s got a couple of new faces in his department, as does the other scientists. There are new medics as well. Weir is going to show them around the City, and Rodney, as Chief Science Officer, has got to be there.

John catches up with him, appearing as if he’s come from his own quarters in the Citadel and no one raises an eyebrow. They walk to the mess together, side by side and they chat – Rodney mostly, about this or that, and they discuss future plans for the Aurora as they cross the threshold. Like this any other ordinary day, like he hasn’t been gone from the City for months, like they haven’t cradled each other the night before;

The spacious room is more crowded than usual. Only some people appear exhaustedly hangover; but there are new faces there, and it itches somehow, makes John wary and tense and it’s not like when Ronon first was taken to the City. He’s become part of it now and he was just one person and his Dæmon, a single soul, and they’d lost their homeworld. But these strangers …

_Got to get used to that._

will he ever stop feeling suspicious?

this sensation engraved in his spine;

Breakfast is plentiful: there are some leftovers from the feast last night and there’s fresh – relatively, anyway – Terran fruit. John grabs some of the grapes. End of the day they’ll probably be out, like the muffins and other Terran treats, and fighting and gambling will ensue to claim them. Rodney, naturally, samples all available Jell-O.

Like any other day. The burn of the night – an imprint on them both, invisible to the world: their Bond is glowing, yet no one else can see it. Like a shield. It lingers, but other than that it’s like any other day and like Rodney’s never left, and they find a table on the balcony outside the mess hall. A breeze is blowing. Sky clear but for some clouds far-off, and John reckons it’ll rain later.

Soon, Teyla’s awake, and so’s Ford. They sit together, as a team: like any other day. The rhythm is natural like breathing, and when Ronon appears with an overfilled tray asking to join them, it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Dex and Ford had bonded last night over guns and rocket launchers and Wrath kills. Though some tension remains because no one’s due to forget how the Satedan first came to meet the Lanteans, and hearing about some guy having knocked out and trussed up your CO makes any marine inherently wary. But that’s been cleared – a man on the run; and they gave him the means to escape.

Yeah, if they’re all okay with it, John is going to make Dex part of the team.

Rodney’s multitasking, no surprise there, pouring over a datapad as he drinks his coffee and chatters away, and if he’s sitting a bit closer than usual, leg brushing against John’s, no one remarks on it. He’s the only one not properly introduced to Dex yet, not does he appear very interested in the prospect. From what he can glean from the tablet, he’s reviewing schematics of the Aurora and taking notes. Ah, the hull repairs. John decides to leave him to it because if he looks too directly too long into his eyes or laid a hand on his shoulder, he’s not sure how secret the act would remain.

Across the table, Teyla practically inhales her strong dark tea.

“Headache?” John asks, grinning at her slightly twisted expression. She’d been at the Roos wine  _and_  danced a lot. It’s very sweet, Roos wine, but it’s got one hell of a kick.

“I have been given some painkillers by Carson.”

“That was a good dance,” Ronon remarks between bites; his plate is full of enough food to compete with Rodney.

“Hey, didn’t you film that? I saw you had a camera,” says Ford, turning to the astrophysicist, who mutters something incomprehensible on his breath without glancing up.

“Apparently the battery died,” John translates, not believing it for a second and Ford frowns slightly but nods. And John realizes then why Rodney would make such a claim, because he mightn’t have filmed anyone else dancing and he fights the heat sinking into his cheeks. Steals a handful of grapes from Rodney’s plate instead.

A hand swats him away: “You’ve got your own.” but the rebuke is gently humored, as if this is any ordinary day, any other ordinary day;

Ford chews on a sandwich. “What d’you think of the newbies?”

“It is strange to see so many people here,” Teyla comments. “But not bad. The City is meant to be inhabited by many people, after all, and it is good to see so much life here once more.”

_No. Not bad._

_Just different._

* * *

During the staff meeting, John can’t quite concentrate, has to look away from Rodney from time to time. From his hands; has to focus on what Weir and the others are saying but it’s difficult, mind wandering and he’s started thinking: is this a good idea?

He’s kept plenty of secrets in his life. One more to the pile. But Rodney … It’s not right, it’s not right that he too should have to keep a secret like this.

Elizabeth sits at the helm. The table is more crowded than usual; Colonel Caldwell is there, on her left, and John sits on her right, Rodney next to him. Ford and Bates and Carson, and Teyla, too, has been invited, not only because she’s part of AR-1 but because she is a link to the Athosians, and they become part of the discussion briefly.

The Athosians have lingered in the City all since leaving Lantea. Some of them now speak of a desire to settle elsewhere, rebuild their old way of life. “It is not that they are not ungrateful, or feel unwelcome,” Teyla explains. “But Atlantis, for its wonders, is not home. My people are not used to living in this kind of urban environment, unable to sow or hunt.”

“That’s understandable,” Elizabeth says kindly. “Have they a planet in mind already?”

“There are some sites we know of already, and Halling has gone with AR-5 a few times to visit potential worlds. The one designated M51-388 is most likely, since it is similar to Athos in many ways, with the same climate in the vicinity of the Gate and the same cycle of day and night.”

“So the decision has been made?”

“There will be one last vote, but I have heard more voices for this than against.”

Weir nods. “Whatever the decision, we will do what we can to help. That’s a promise.”

“Thank you, Dr Weir.”

Then matters move on to the ever-prudent issue of the Wraith. The City is hidden out here, but the rest of the galaxy isn’t, and New Lantea might not remain a haven for all eternity. Sooner or later, a whisper or explosion will give them away, and they have got to prepare. Find a way to win this fight. While on Terra, Rodney’s been thinking of a way to place a number of sensors in a carefully planned galaxy-wide grid to monitor activity in real-time – as real as time can be on this scale. A planet a lightyear away is, after all, a lightyear away, but using subspace arrays and some complex calculations it could be done. A sort of early warning system; if a Hive moved within range of a sensor, they’d know of it within thirty minutes. Enough time to cloak the City, or to raise the shields. 

Some addresses in the database have already been flagged as potential sites to drop off such sensors. And there are worlds they could check out for recon, but they are out of Jumper distance, no Gates nearby.

Some of those planets have been flagged as possible Wraith homeworlds. If they are, the Expedition needs to know.

The Daedalus is an asset they simply have to use, and Colonel Caldwell agrees (a hint of cold detachment; there’s something about his eyes) to take his crew on the mission. Even with the Daedalus’ extremely powerful engines, the travel time of the flight path is estimated over three days to all locations and back. Before the ship is sent out, all systems have to be checked and marked green, and the ship resupplied with food and water. And their first stop is the void between P91-987 and P29-814, where their Ancient Warship is hovering uncertainly in the shadow of a nebula.

“There is no way we could move out earlier than tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred,” the Colonel insists.

“Very well. We need the Daedalus out there.” Even if they can only sweep a minute part of the sky at a time; one ship is better than none.

Precisely on time, the Aurora calls home. The screens in the Conference Room flicker on; Major Lorne is the one speaking this time rather than a scientist. And he’s in the Bridge rather than a Jumper, and in the background Miko Kusanagi and Dr Collins are at work by a console. They’ve finally gotten the Warship’s own subspace comms online.

 _“Major; Colonel,”_  he greets, respectfully _. “Dr Weir.”_

“How’s it going, Major?” John asks amicably. First time Elizabeth is coming face to face with Lorne – albeit at a distance of several hundred lightyears. She’s probably trying to judge him, beyond what she has heard in his reports. Fit him with the words.

 _“All’s quiet out here,”_  he answers.  _“As you probably noticed, the comm system is fixed. We’re preparing to move onto the hull next, once the Daedalus arrives with the spare parts.”_

“Liftoff isn’t scheduled for another twenty hours,” says Colonel Caldwell. “We’ll let you know when we have an estimated time of arrival.”

Conversation is brief. The chance of detection is always greater whenever a subspace link, whether it be through a Gate or not, is established.

The meeting comes to a close with the decision made for AR-1 to leave on a mission tomorrow, and Dex will join them as a sort of trial. The planet they’re visiting is not altogether new, already marked as a potential ally. It’ll be a good warm-up: say hello to the locals, negotiate terms of trade, take a few snapshots of the views. At least one peaceful mission before the daily chaos ensues, before the step back into the unknown where every mission could potentially be one unsteady, rocky slope after the other.

Afterward, they part, walk down two different hallways. It’s past ten forty, and John’s got to dig out those dress blues from the back of the closet. John’s pulse is calmly back to normal now, but there’s a swell of emotion as he looks at Rodney’s face, and it probably flows across their Bond freely for Rodney and Meredith to hear;

“See you later,” he blurts, and they don’t know what do to again, if to simply nod or share an embrace. It ends up being a slightly awkward pat on the arm.

There are too many people around to do anything else.

* * *

The uniform is well cared-for, cleanly dusted off. Checks that it’s all in order. Putting it on feels wrong, far too stiff. Not the kind of garment that softens up over the years in his line of work, and, frankly, that’s how he thinks it should be. Looking in the mirror, there’s a stranger staring back.

The Gate Room is packed and other officers are dressed similarly. Some civilians have donned a suit if they bothered to bring one; most of them didn’t. John feels like a sore thumb. Never walked through the City halls like this before. Greets Ford and Teyla by the stairs; the Lieutenant blinks at him for a moment as if shell-shocked, then snaps a salute. He, too, is in cleaned up in his blues, regal and proud. Not a hair askew in his Dæmon’s fur.

“Wow. Never seen you that un-casual, sir,” Ford comments.

“That’s not a word,” mutters Rodney. He’s in his normal attire, the oh so familiar BDU and he’s wearing the thigh holster. So maybe that’s incredibly hot and distracting. After last night -

John breathes through his nose, sharply, and Rodney’s looking at him like – well, it’s hard to describe. Like last night;

like this morning;

 _Not now._  He straightens his back, a subconscious action. The last thing he needs is to drown in this swelling emotion while surrounded by the rest of the Expedition. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

Ford’s pretending – yeah, that look on his face is definitely a lie and it doesn’t sit well with him; it shows – his Dæmon Adria all restlessly jittery. “No idea, sir.”

Teyla, too, inclines her head. “I am not aware. Elizabeth did not share the details with me.”

And Rodney only hums on his breath, fidgeting a little, and John takes place next to him; it’s so easy, the four of them forming this line of team, and Rodney by his side, as it should be. So close, close enough to touch but they can’t.

There’s no podium of speech, no wires or microphones, but the area immediately around the Stargate has been cleared, people forming a half circle, climbing the stairs; others are standing above, in the Control Room, overlooking it all. They’ve set up a live video feed with the Aurora via the Gate on P91-987, and the blue glow of the event horizon casts light on everyone’s faces.

The murmurs slowly die into silence as the clock ticks closer, and Elizabeth takes center stage. She, too, isn’t dressed casually at all. For a moment John wonders if he’s simply woken up in a parallel universe, one in which everything is upside down. Colonel Caldwell stands by Weir’s left side, solemnly grave, expression blankly unreadable. Sergeant Bates, too, is present, and Ronon Dex and every AR-team, every civilian. They’re all present. John clasps his hands behind his back, ramrod straight, and refrains from shifting his weight from foot to foot. Something about the uniform making it impossible.

“People of Atlantis,” Weir says; “Good morning, and welcome, all of you who arrived with the Daedalus yesterday. First off all, I’d like to say how good it is to be back. After four months on Earth, the sight of the beautiful City whole and sound is, simply, an indescribable relief.” She isn’t quoting a script; good like that. Not a stutter in her voice. “Secondly, I want to thank each and every one of you for your contributions – big and small. The Expedition has survived this far thanks to the collective effort of us all, and together we’ll create a brighter future. One, I hope, full of new discoveries.” The uplifting tone turning deeper and more sober: “I must also address all of the sacrifices made in the time we have been here. Let us remember all those who cannot be here with us, and honor them by continuing our work and make sure none of their sacrifices were in vain.”

No names. Not needed. Like stitches in the fabric of time – the endless grains of sand in the desert - John knows them all by heart and, no doubt, Weir does too. A slight chill settles over the room, and heads are bent.

“In our quest to explore this galaxy, we have encountered many dangers, some of which we haven’t yet overcome. I am immensely proud to work and live alongside all of you. Out here, we have to stick together. Earth is three million lightyears away. What truly matter is here and now.” Weir gazes over the crowds. The silence isn’t oppressing or stifling at all. It’s the gathered breath; “One more thing. Please come to attention.”

The military call is unlike her, and John waits with bated breath. The clicking of heels as the marines straighten up is a choir, and even Rodney is looking more interested. For some reason, there is a moment of utter clarity and John can see, out of the corner of his eye, how Rodney’s made an effort, combed his hair back – usually doesn’t care – each thread in his jacket and the creases around the elbow and the faint lines in his face, in his forehead, brought by stressful times more than by age. Sharp and crisp like a photograph. Meredith isn’t pacing or prowling around his feet: sits, like a statue almost at attention. And Rodney’s side is lightly touching his own, a heat that’ll linger and he uses it as an anchor. Knuckles brushing his own;

Colonel Caldwell takes the word. The highest ranking officer on site, and what follows isn’t for a civilian to announce, not even Dr Weir, who’s led them faithfully through the year. Given them something to rely on. Caldwell, unlike Elizabeth, is reading from a script, printed words carefully chosen beforehand.

“The President of the United States, acting upon the recommendation of the Secretary of the Air Force, recognizes the of acts of selfless heroism and integrity as made Major John Sheppard to benefit not just this Expedition but all of the human race. I, Colonel Caldwell, with the authorization of Major General Hank Landry of the SGC, hereby authorize Major Sheppard’s immediate promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel of the United States Air Force, and for his continued assignment as Commanding Officer of this military contingent. Major, please step forward.”

After all of this – after waking the Wraith and shooting Sumner and taking command of a contingency which he never should have, wasn’t his place, a duty unwillingly placed on his shoulders; and with the Raven and Colonel Everett, being considered a security risk – he never really thought that …

In a daze, he obeys. Feet feeling like lead, movements on automatic.

 _[Maybe should’ve seen that coming],_  Shy remarks, thoughtfully. They linger on his shoulder. Dæmon and human together; they step toward the open Gate, and now he realizes that Weir is smiling, and Ford’s gleeful expression – oh, the kid  _knew._  Maybe not Rodney because he wouldn’t be able to keep shut, and there’s nothing but surprise and maybe that’s pride, flowing through the bond. The warmth fills his blood. That’s pride – Rodney’s looking at the proceedings intensely.

Can’t remember last time someone was that proud of him.

Weir presents and unfurls the new colors of rank. She hands them to Colonel Caldwell to pin them on, and their weight is unfamiliar and acutely sharp. The silver oak leaf is both a new burden and a huge relief – a Major shouldn’t lead as many marines the way he does, but now, now he officially has the right to. That means the SGC means to keep him here, surely. That means - 

Caldwell steps back, and they exchange salutes. There is no supervisor or other person of higher rank to make a speech, other than Weir. Colonel Sumner isn’t here but lingers on the edge like a ghost; will always remain that way. There’s a buzz in his ears, drowned in the clamor of the applauds and someone’s whistling, and he takes a deep breath. A casual smile. Shakes Elizabeth’s hand.

“Congratulations,” she says, before silence has settled again.

He swears the oath. Words imprinted in his mind since long ago and the only weird thing about it is to call himself a Lieutenant Colonel now, strange and unexpected. Usually, if there’s a promotion at hand, there’d be supervisors and warnings; this was a surprise, which tells him Elizabeth must have persuaded General Landry, in order to keep him here in the City. He looks at the crowd of civilians and marines, seeking the faces he knows. Receives a subtle thumbs-up from Ford, and a smile from Teyla;

The clapping dies down. He clears his throat.

“I’d have prepared a speech if there’d been a memo,” he says, causing some chuckles. “So I’ll keep this short.” He takes a breath, tries to spur on his thoughts into some kind of order, sentenced which will make sense. Orders are one thing, but he’s no Elizabeth Weir, can’t sound as confidently uplifting outside of the battlefield or tactical planning room. He looks toward Rodney and Ford and Teyla, briefly: “To start, I want to thank my team. Without you guys, I wouldn’t be standing here today.”

He can’t reference a supervisor or something higher up the chain other than Weir and she’s civilian; nobody else has been watching him move. Colonel Sumner is dead; if he’d been here, John thinks, he’d probably not be wearing this silver leaf. No, they wouldn’t hasten it like this, in the shadow of what’s been done.But a Major can’t be CO of this base. He recognizes the strings that must’ve been pulled.

“And I want to thank Dr Weir and everyone else on Atlantis. And General Jack O’Neill, because if I hadn’t ended up ferrying him from MacMurdo to the Outpost in Antarctica, I’d never found out about the Stargate.” He decides to not mention the wild drone, for Carson’s sake. Poor doc goes flustered and embarrassed every time the accident is mentioned, followed by a rant to never come near an Ancient Chair ever again.

He can’t think of anything else to say, and thankfully Elizabeth rescues him from any awkward silence, letting him step back. Begins to speak again, aware of how little he enjoys the attention. One thing she’s picked up during the Expedition’s first year: he’s not a guy who prefers the limelight if he can help it.

“A last reminder before we go back to work: all personnel who haven’t received a subcutaneous  transmitter have to report to the infirmary – civilians at 16:00 hours Standard Atlantis Time, and military personnel at 17:00. Thank you.”

People begin to disperse, but John finds himself unable to leave the Gate Room for another half hour. Hands to shake and congratulations to receive, and he tries to bear it with grace and not the sensation of having been suddenly taken to the wrong place in the universe. Keenly aware that he wouldn’t be here if not for Colonel Sumner, if not for the trail of mistakes and blood and death of good people; but not one mentions it, though there is definite frost in Colonel Caldwell’s expression.

Teyla doesn’t shake his hand, greeting him the Athosian way instead. She knows more about the Tau’ri now and understands that this is a rather big deal, a cause for celebration. On her and Kanaan’s tail is Rodney, whose smile is genuine, and John struggles to look him in the eye and not do anything too toward too direct too warm;

When Ford comes forth – after quite a while and John can’t care to recall in what order they’ve shook his hand - he gives the kid a sharp look. “No idea, huh?”

“I swore an oath of silence, sir, strictly speaking,” Ford says, apologetically. “Sergeant Bates and I, and Weir of course, we, uh, we spoke with General Landry and O’Neill to commend you.” Unsaid: Elizabeth might have argued, heatedly, and John recalls the emails, Rodney’s complaints about Caldwell wanting to take over as CO and Weir’s protest.

Yes – strings pulled.

Ford’s back straightens; a smart salute. “Colonel.”

“Oh, at ease, Lieutenant. Remember I’ve  _officially_  got the right to boss you around now.”

* * *

When he can finally shake them off and wander outside, he has to take moment. Steps onto the grand balcony by the Control Room, breathes deeply. The sky is blue and clear, and to soothe them both the Raven takes brief flight. Always helped, doing that, to clear his head. There’s time – the tours aren’t scheduled to start until after lunch. He’ll handle some of it, and Bates and Ford the rest, already detailedly planned out during the voyage with the Daedalus. Show the marines the works and get the up to speed with how it works out here. Slight differences from the SGC, and huge differences from the rest of Terra.

The City looks so still, undisturbed, as if nothing’s changed. As if nothing’s changed;

After a while, Rodney and Meredith find him there, and John glances at him. “Did you know?”

Could’ve warned them in an email.

“No,” Rodney scowls. Then changes his mind: “Well, in a roundabout way because no one’d tell me outright and only because they think I’m incapable of not spreading gossip which, truly, is an abhorrent lie. I may have overheard some discussions in the Mountain. Mostly because they were quite loud, mind.”

 _Loud._  John winces slightly, imagining it. The debate was probably heated and there must’ve been protests, but Weir and others stood their ground – he has allies, and he hasn’t felt like he’s really had ones before, before this, before Atlantis. Everything changed when he stepped through the Gate for the first time.

Can’t quite think that the President actually endorsed this decision, after reading the reports; after Colonel Sumner, after waking the Wraith and a cascade of disasters one after the other and the Uprising, especially the Uprising. Colonel Everett’s trial isn’t over yet, it’s barely begun and John may have ruined the man’s career, and it wasn’t personal – if the Colonel hadn’t reacted the way he did, neither would have the Expedition and the outcome might’ve been very different. 

(he was only defending his home.   
they were all defending their home)

No use in lingering on possible pasts. He checks his watch. Another forty minutes until the tours are meant to start. “Lunch?” he asks. “Though I need to step by my quarters first to change.”

Rodney nods eagerly, was going to ask himself. Starts talking about today’s menu and the mission tomorrow and John slides into step with him, conversation idly lulling. By the foot of the stair below, they see Sergeant Bates and Ford handing out datapads to the thirty-eight new marines, gathered around him as they are synced up to the intranet and guided to the schedule. The day’s going to be busy. A brief nod of acknowledgement in their direction, which John returns.

Then they leave the Gate Room behind, into the less crowded corridors, heading for the Citadel and John doesn’t expect Rodney to follow all the way. He’s very talkative, in that slightly stressed way as if he’s nervous and John can’t quite figure why. Doesn’t get the sense of something wrong, either, no pain, physical or emotional or otherwise. Just this hint of edginess. But Rodney doesn’t break off to head directly to the mess.

“Don’t have to hang around, you know,” John reminds him. “Didn’t you want to be first in line for that pasta?”

Abruptly, when no one can see them anymore, Rodney grabs his wrist and guides him across the floor. Into a transporter; back to Rodney’s quarters, and John’s mind swims, a surge, as they cross the threshold.

The room is as messy as they’d left it this morning.

Walking over the pile of cases in the corner, which he’d spied when waking up, Rodney says: “I’d have it beamed to your quarters, first, but it seemed, well, a bit too conspicuous.”

So they’re not going to make out and have wild, hot sex. Perhaps best if he’s to walk steady the rest of the day, John reflects. “You’re making me nervous putting it like that. So, that’s not the parts to build, I don’t know, a nuke? Or a very fancy ray gun?”

“Again with the weapons,” the Canadian mutters. “Typical military.” Points out the biggest one. The case is matte black, standard issue and utter unremarkable, and, unsure if he should fear something jumping at him (and it’d be very cool if it  _was_  a ray gun), John clicks it open. And he blinks down at the contents, startled, but not unpleasantly so.

“You … you bought a surfboard?”

It’s a beauty, exactly what he’s envisioned and then, then he recalls that email exchange and the image; sent more of a joke, he hadn’t been seriously asking him to bring one.

“Yes. I, I did. For you, obviously.” And Rodney shuffles a bit, sideways, hands in his pockets and there’s something awkwardly humble and so uncertain about him which is so unlike him; a hesitation to look directly at him. “Well, it seemed – We missed Christmas, not that I care too much about it but … Since I heard about your upcoming promotion and, well. Note how difficult it was to get that, I had to email half a dozen of morons to find the right one - to think there are so many kinds of boards to play on water and potentially break something. Ludicrous. Took hours, and – anyway –”

And John stands, and decides that hugs should be normalized. “Thanks, Rodney. Thank you.” The action is simply so unexpectedly sweet, one of generosity which so many people think him completely unable of, think he’s some cold distant machine incapable of human emotion, and something burns in his belly at the thought. Rodney is none of those things. People just don’t understand him. Sure, he has his faults. Can be a huge pain, sometimes. But they don’t know him like he does.

The astrophysicist shrugs, aiming for casual: “You got us an Ancient Warship. Seems like a fair exchange.”

He grins. “So you’re not interested in your gift, huh?”

“Of course you got one, should’ve known,” a mutter; and a year ago, the Expedition’s first Christmas, they hadn’t really bonded that well. Exchanged well-wishes but not many physical things. Didn’t have a lot to give, their resources already dwindling and they hadn’t had a lot of allies yet either. 

“In my quarters, though.”

“Let me guess: it’s hidden under your bed?”

John lowers his voice, and wishes there was more time: “Could be atop of it too, if you’d prefer that.”

* * *

There is an actual gift – but not hidden under the bed – and John pulls it out of a drawer folded into the wall and dusts it off.

It had been kind of difficult to figure out exactly what to give. Rodney’s a complex guy, and the ground they stand on still unmarked by words or labels and, well, apart from Ancient gadgets and  _potentiae_ , John couldn’t think of anything fitting. By comparison, getting stuff for Teyla and Ford had been easy; weaponry is something which can be both beautiful and useful. 

Had scourged the City, the old abandoned labs which have been cleared and secured by the Expedition. And on a crystal, a partial file, hidden under layers of data in archaic Ancient, he’d found some scraps of research. The beginning of an equation to build a  _potentia,_  and he’s copied it into English (not the easiest thing because the science is difficult at best) – the Ancients had wiped a lot of that knowledge, or tried to hide it somehow. Perhaps just in case of the Wraith, so that they’d never learn to make such powerful energy sources themselves, never use it against them or any human population. An endless source of frustration for the scientists. The vast database of the City simply cannot be downloaded, translated, and read in a single afternoon, or a single year, perhaps not a lifetime;

Rodney accepts the hand-written notes, wrapped in a thin standard portfolio, with glee and reverence. “Where did you …?”

“Dug it out of a crystal from a lab on the East Pier.”

Doesn’t mention that he’s had far too many boring, empty hours on his hands; Rodney already knows that. He turns the pages, skimming over them, eyes wide. It’ll take time to go through properly, to understand, nevertheless to continue the work. It’s just a start.

But if they could build a  _potenia_  of their own – if there’s no limit anymore – they could find a way to defeat the Wraith once and for all;

 _[Good choice, then],_  the Raven laughs, when Rodney finds no words, for once, and simply kisses him.

They end up almost missing lunch altogether. As if they haven’t been able to breathe for four months and now they’re finally given the chance to do so together; to escape drowning. The kisses are slow and lazy and frenzied all at once, and John works his way out of his dress blues. The temptation is fierce – almost overwhelmingly so – to go further. But they haven’t got the time.

As he buttons up his black BDU – much more comfortable – Rodney withdraws, a sigh: “Now I’m  _really_  not in the mood to ferry people around the City and point out the obvious. I need to get working on this right away.” Grips the portfolio tightly as if it’s worth more than all gold in the whole universe. “This is invaluable data. I can’t believe you didn’t even  _mention_  it in an email!”

John grins, pats his arm. “That’d have spoiled the surprise.” Stands up, adjusts his belt. “Well, have fun with the kids.”

Rodney groans. “Fun? We’ll have at least three accidents with people sticking fingers into sockets, and I’ve got so much else to do and better ways to spend my time than supervise a bunch of incompetent novices.”

(He highly doubts any of the civilian scientists are incompetent; thought a bit too eager, possibly, and they could act without thinking. The fears aren’t wholly without ground. The City is full of uncertain things, dangerous unexplored areas and functions without name, they haven’t figured it all out yet, and some of those scientist mightn’t be so humble, want to shine and appear so clever. The kind of thing that’s gotten people in trouble. Gotten people killed.)

“At least you’ll have a good excuse if something blows up.”


	18. ark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _maybe there’s a glitch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-08-27) Thank you everyone who's read, left kudos and/or commented!! You fuel the fire that keeps me writing.  
> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**xviii.**

# ark

_maybe there’s a glitch._

* * *

No one hollers  _at-ten-shun!_  There is no need. These aren’t cadets, wholly inexperienced but some of them are young, some of them have never been to war;

Sergeant Bates has already shown them around the Citadel. To attempt to distribute photocopied maps of the City or even just a part of it would be hopeless; the levels and the intricacies of the details are simply too overwhelming. But each new member of the Expedition, civilian or not, has received a PDA with a digital map of Atlantis downloaded from the mainframe, and that can be used to navigate the place. In way, these folks are lucky. They come to foreign territory but it’s already been staked out by the first wave of explorers. Dangerous or unexplored areas of the City are clearly marked out.

They’ve made the Central Tower theirs but it represents but a fraction of the whole City. There is so much yet to see;

The thirty-eight marines are patiently waiting. None of them is going to be sent out in the field for a while yet. Got to get their bearings first. It’s their first official day in Atlantis, and Bates and Ford have just held an extensive (yet woefully incomplete because they don’t have all the answers) lecture on Wraith battle tactics. A room in one of the buildings of the Inner City could have been a theater hall of some sort, ten thousand years ago; a stage waiting to be used.

The Wraith aren’t like the Goa’uld and whatever else these people have been trained to fight. Some of them haven’t even seen a Stargate before being called in for this, and they are the tensest ones. The ones who’d stared this morning as AR-4 had left on their first mission since MacGrimmon has (to the Corporal’s relief) been released from the duty as Head of Security now that Bates is back; John’s only seen and heard good things about his time with the duty, and soon the guy will be ready to make Sergeant.

Ford has slotted back into place as XO with ease. He’s not a kid anymore, and it shows, and John’s proud of having a hand in that and, yet, also a bit sad of the things war causes. No one has reacted to his presence, and John is partly pleased and partly displeased; none of these people are amateurs. But they are in a foreign place, with foreign instructors, and surrounded by foreign walls. None of them is armed with more than 9mil and at least one knife. Not allowed to go anywhere without those – not even when leaving quarters to hit the head. One rule that’s easy to reinforce. 

A murmur, someone whispering in the back row. Someone clearing their throat. Ford opens up another PowerPoint presentation, and the screen on the far wall lights up; the lamps have been manually dimmed. The auditorium is a three-story tall chamber that could fit a hundred people with ease, maybe the whole Expedition if no one would mind the crowd. Sergeant Bates looks over the room from the podium, and the mutters fall silent. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. The slide shows a list of recon team designations with names attached, and people are looking more interested now.

“Last thing on today’s schedule. Tomorrow some of you are going to be assigned teams, before you’ll spend an obligatory shift at the Alpha Site.” 

Sergeant Bates’ face is carefully guarded, and there is no sign of amusement. He’s the kind of striking, gloomy figure which induces a sense of authority. Not the kind of guy you want to get on the wrong side off, it’s obvious. 

(there are things which are less obvious.)

John takes over: “Some of you have already know this, from your experience with the SGC in the Milky Way. It’s no different out here: a team’s the most important thing you’ve got. Your team’s what gets you out alive at the end of the day. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to operate on your own. If you’re separated for whatever reason, that’s got to work. And if you’re pushed together in some other group, other marines or allies from another planet, that’s got to work too. You’ve got to be prepared for anything because this isn’t Earth, and anything could happen.”

The marines sit listening with ramrod straight backs and eyes glued on him, on the screen. Complete and full attention.

“And wherever you are, you’ve got to be ready. There’s the Wraith but there are other bad guys, too, sometimes less obvious. More often than not we find ourselves unwelcome on a planet and got to retreat under fire. Questions?”

Brief hesitation. A hand is raised, a Lance Corporal McKenzie. “Sir, what about the Genii? Is it true they attacked the City last year?”

“That’s complex situation. We’ve got an alliance with them now, but, yeah. They did. A rebel faction but their leader’s dead. So, yeah, we’ve had to fight humans and it could happen again. Anyone else?”

A Lieutenant Cadman this time: “I thought the Gate has an iris, like on Earth, sir. So wouldn’t that make it impossible for anyone to get in without an IDC?”

“Yeah, but they’d hijacked an IDC and claimed to be refugees.” A cloud on his face; a moment of remembrance. “Something bad shit goes down because we want to help.”

The principle instilled: the IDC belonged to an ally, and they couldn’t turn away. Weir would never allow it, and John doesn’t think he’d sleep so well at night either if those had been real refugees and they’d have closed the iris on them -

(he had slept poorly for whole other reasons) 

* * *

After dismissal, the marines disperse. Have been assigned quarters and now have a few spare hours to take a stroll around the City on their own volition, or use the gym, or whatever they prefer. The old SG-teams – Major Teldy’s, Captain Whitney’s, and Captain Yates’ – stick together. Their bonds are already strong, and to them, Atlantis is the alien place, but they’ve been offworld before.

The twenty-six other marines are much lonelier souls, not too close to anyone yet. Picked from different places, for different reasons. People with various specialist skills. There are a couple of guys who’re also scuba divers, and there are good climbers, the odd medic or explosives expert; people with less obvious skills, too, like chemistry or physics or geology. Some don’t have an official master’s degree in the subject of choice, but has shown interest and proficiency with it and they’re all being offered here to make use of that skill, and to through the SGC earn that education fully. Some of them, John and Bates and Ford have already made short-lists of teams for. Tryouts will tell if it’ll fit like a glove – a team’s got to be like that. Tight. If there’s something grating, even a something tiny, they’ve got to know so they can fix it somehow.

John glances at his wristwatch and heads toward the infirmary.

The corridor outside of the main entrance to the infirmary’s first level is crowded. The last of the civilians are leaving, and the marines have formed a straight orderly line, but remain clearly in groups: AR-teams sticking together. This isn’t a check-up with a General pacing up and down, so some shoulders are slouching, and people are chattering without hindrance. None of the rookies are here; only old personnel who didn’t go to Terra. 

John slips in discreetly. Corporal MacGrimmon and his team are at the end of the line, and they’re familiar with the routines and relaxed protocol, and it’s a relief to be greeted that way, casually - not stared at as by the rookies, who cannot tear their eyes off the Raven as if they the most unusual of aliens. The line moves forward efficiently.

Turns out it’s a simple procedure. Stings a bit, to have the tiny piece of machinery placed under the skin of his upper arm; it leaves an itch, and Beckett warns them all not to scratch it. “In a few days you won’t feel it at all,” he says amicably, before letting him go.

Now the Daedalus won’t need as many complex calculations of determining lifesigns to find them and use its Asgard beaming technology. A good way to count heads. The locator beacons are, simply put, a small microchip but capable to transmit a signal quite a bit. Securely tested. Not just any sensor is capable of picking them up: this is mostly for the Asgard beams which the Daedalus and presumably other X-class ships developed by the SGC have been equipped with. There was a mention of another ship in the works, Apollo, soon about to be launched on its maiden voyage in Avalon.

John can’t wait to get going tomorrow. A mission, longed for – it’s been too many days. _Really not made for flying desk_. No. Now that’s Weir is back in her office, normalcy can commence. Tonight’s team night, an unspoken agreement. After he’s signed the last of the paperwork.

He’s midway from the infirmary to the gym for a swift session to unwind when, abruptly, he remembers the hidden room with the hologram.

Nearly forgot about it in the elation of reuniting with Rodney and the impact of this morning still settling, and John is half-way to the mess hall when the thought strikes him.

Turns, instead, and heads for the nearest transporter.

He passes by AR-7 who have also received their sub-q transmitters; they’re chattering loudly and some of the new marines are with them, being shown the sights. Rookies coming to attention as he rounds the corner, and John tells them to be at ease. Got to learn that. One of the medics is exiting the transporter when he reaches it, but no one joins him as he closes the doors, and the light takes him to the edge of the Inner City, facing the North Pier;

* * *

The room with its hidden door is right where it was, and he finds the seam in the wall. Within, the quiet, and the dark, and again it feels like stepping into a black hole: the City keeps saying that this room Isn’t, there’s Nothing Here. He flickers on the console, obeys the instruction –  _te declaro_  – and considers radioing Rodney; he’s going to want to see this.

The screen doesn’t activate. Instead there’s a projection on the dais next to it:

A holographic image extends upward from a small point of light in the side of the console, onto the platform-like circle right next to it. The image forms, quickly, into a solid-looking shape. A humanoid shape and, next to it, there’s – well, it has to be a Dæmon. John blinks. It looks remarkably like that shape which Shy had tried out, for a minute or so, back before the Uprising, after the whole thing with the Chair: what was it called again? yeah:  _volucera_. Some kind of old indigenous life-form that had existed on the planet where the Ancients evolved, millions of years ago; could be extinct now.

And John is so preoccupied staring at the holograph of the Dæmon that he doesn’t at first see the man next to it. Or, rather, how eerily familiar he looks.

Breaking away from the console, John exhales sharply. The man – Ancient; has to be – has a smooth face, he looks … young. Terribly young. No more than twenty years old, if that, and his ears are slightly rounder than his own. But otherwise – otherwise it’s almost like looking into a mirror. The eyes are the same shade of green as John’s own.

_Okay. That’s … vaguely creepy._

_[Yeah.]_  Shy lifts into the air and circles the holograph once, twice, thrice, before settling back down again.

His hand slips – as Rodney would probably call it accidentally on purpose – and there’s a noise unlike the blinking of the lights: something moves, out of the corner of his eye and John whips around, hand on his thigh holster ready to pull out his sidearm –

_[Wait. Did they just move?]_

The Raven is right. The hologram of the man and his Dæmon aren’t frozen in the relaxed pose anymore: a back straightens, a pair of leathery wings move, soundlessly, and then the man tilts his head to look right at him.

Not just a silent projection.

 _That’s still a hologram, right, an old recording?_  John wants to whisper, paranoid; maybe there’s a glitch.  _There’s no way they’re looking at us._

Maybe there’s a glitch.

Experimentally, he moves away from the console, which stays alight; the hologram stays on the elevated platform, but the man, whose eyes are an icy blue and there’s something almost haunting about those eyes, something inhuman; and they keep tracking the movement. John takes another step; the head-tilting ceases, but the projection is definitely looking right at him.

It’s in the programming, somehow. To make in interact with its surroundings in a lifelike way. Yeah. Got to be it.

(maybe there’s a glitch)

He moves back to the console. Exchanges a glance with Shy – but the Raven doesn’t know more than he. And the City doesn’t recognize this place, it doesn’t exist on the schematics or anywhere else but it feels real, not like an illusion, and if he’d somehow stepped into a virtual environment, he ought to have noticed. Right?

John clears his throat. “Uh, hi there.”

_Honestly, it’s just a hologram._

_[Are we freaking out? Should we be?]_

_Nah, it’s just a hologram._

There’s no reply and he silently thanks whatever gods there may be for that. If the hologram had replied he’d seriously –

“Hello.” The voice is raspy, like hollow stone dragged across the ground heavily, void of real emotion; an echo, but no doubt based on a real voice, if dead for thousands of years. The man is speaking in Ancient.

Oh, crap.

John reaches for his radio. Taps it gently to find the right frequency, the one his team uses. The hologram is still watching.

“Rodney, this is Sheppard, do you copy?”

The answer is very distracted.  _“Yes, what is it?”_  Rodney’s probably in his lab, working on something. A calculation – finally free from having to show the newcomers around, able to get to work on his projects and catch up on months of absence. Well, that’s going to have to wait.

“I’m in the lower levels of the City, in the middle of the walkway to the North Pier, section B-12; there’s a lab here and there’s something here you need to see like five minutes ago.”

_“Could you be a bit more specific?”_

“There’s a hologram of an Ancient guy and he’s looking at me.”

He can practically hear Rodney’s exasperated expression.  _“Of course. Did you make some insulting remark at it? Because with your track record it wouldn’t be implausible. And, you know, holograms can’t actually_ **see** _.”_

“Well, I think this one can. He’s staring right at me. And listening.”

The awareness in those cold eyes -

_“Give me a minute.”_

Knowing Rodney, that minute will probably be fifteen minutes, or twenty depending if he goes alone or if he decides to drag some of his science team along too, and whether he’s had enough coffee to walk or take a transporter. There’s none in the immediate vicinity.

They wait. The whole time, John can’t take his eyes off the hologram: isn’t sure if he dares to turn his back.

And the man and his Dæmon stand there, staring back: neither speaking; but there is a hint of a quirked smile, faintly amused and difficult to read and his eyes – there’s something eerily familiar and strange and utterly **wrong** about his jaded eyes;

 _Come on, hurry up,_  he thinks, reaching outward. Haven’t tested communicating over a distance before, and isn’t sure if the thought is picked up at all. 

* * *

Rodney arrives fourteen minutes, without a science team at his back - perhaps he wants to be the one to claim the honors if there’s a discovery to be made – clutching a datapad tightly in his left hand.

The moment he crosses the threshold of the open door, the console goes dark. The holographic man and his Dæmon disappear soundlessly and John lounges forward, tries to activate things again: no response from anything, there’s no familiar hum of Ancient tech – nothing. Rodney stands on the threshold, and frowns when seeing nothing but a dead console at the center of the windowless room.

“You said ‘hologram’. This isn’t.”

“It was right here!”

“Oh, great, you fried the circuitry, didn’t you,” Rodney snarks, but hooks up the PDA to the console anyway. He doesn’t disbelieve. Knows that he wouldn’t lie about something like this;

“I didn’t do anything. It was there, and when the door opened it was just gone.”

Rodney’s frown deepens, but he moves forward and stars fiddling with the console, both above and below it and John lets him, stepping back patiently, arms crossed.

“This section of the City was flooded before,” Rodney says, thinking half-aloud as he works, “and while Ancient tech seems to be pretty resilient to water, maybe this thing’s just broken.”

“Broken? But it worked a minute ago.”

“Well, this console is dead. I mean really, truly, utterly dead.” Pulling out his lifesigns detector, which he always keeps on him, Rodney adjusts it to pick up energy readings only: there’s nothing, and he shows John the empty screen for extra emphasis. Doesn’t make sense. “Look: nada, zilch, nothing. Looks like this whole room isn’t getting any power at all, except for the lights obviously. Could run a diagnostics from the Control Room, but these readings  _are_  accurate, there’s nothing wrong with the equipment.”

“Rodney, would I have pulled you from your lab to show you a dead console if there wasn’t anything there?”

The astrophysicist gives him a look, slightly difficult to read; not annoyed or disappointed, rather perplexed; somewhat fond: “Well, how would I know, you’re a pilot with messy hair. You do strange things sometimes.”

“Only sometimes – thanks. Honestly, though, there was a hologram.” John gestures at the empty space above the round platform. “This guy, had to have been an Ancient, and his Dæmon. Plus the screen showed a lot of text before and, from what I managed to gather, it might have been some kind of account from the survivors of the Wraith’s Last Siege of the City.”

The frown drops, Rodney’s face morphing into curiosity. “A manifest? Or like an Ancient’s diary?”

“It mentioned evacuating to Terra, and something about Descendants, capitalized. I didn’t find any names, though, or a list of evacuees or anything like that. Maybe it’s in there somewhere, some other file, but I couldn’t find it. Then the hologram guy showed up. That’s as far as I got before you entered the room and the console went dark.”

“You mean died, and it’s probably a glitch, maybe a damaged crystal somewhere.” Rodney frowns at the device, bewildered and obviously compelled. This isn’t the way it should go: the secrets of the universe are meant to be discovered, sooner or later, Then he pries open the top of the console with expert ease and John winces a bit, hopes nothing is broken because there’s an ominous creaking noise of sudden stress of pressure;

Atlantis doesn’t whine about it. Like She’s not aware, can’t feel it – and that’s impossibly disconcerting. She knows  _everything_ within the boundaries of the City and this would normally cause protests, concerns, warnings. Now – nothing. Not even the whisper of silence.

The tough Ancient tech holds and now they can see the rows of crystals, the wires, what makes it tick. 

Frown deepens further: “Maybe it doesn’t respond to an artificially awakened version of the gene … John, think  _on_  at it,” he says, pointing.

Few people could ever boss him around like that, and John obeys, tries to at least. But the screen remains dark and empty. “I’ve already tried that,” he says. “It worked before. It’s even password protected.”

While Rodney continues fiddling with the console to no avail, John explains how he found the console the other morning during his run. The sudden clarity of the hidden door; and they’re both thinking it: if this room is so hidden that it doesn’t even exist in the City’s memory, then who built it? who used it? and for what?

To leave a memoir in a secret chamber seems a bit counter-productive. A wish to preserve it from the Wraith, perhaps, but … something doesn’t add up. The Ancients seemed to think the City impenetrable and didn’t have it destroyed in a self-destruct, leaving Her intact on the bottom of the ocean on Lantea. Plenty of other secrets and weapons and labs spread about, like trails of bread crumbs, just begging to be followed and discovered. This, this is different.

Try as they might, they can’t get it back online again. It’s always been easy, doesn’t require effort, to use Ancient tech. This thing …  _resists,_  like it’d rather sleep. Strange: it wasn’t like this last time he entered this room. Then everything was brightly automatic, simple, clear. Now it remains utterly quiet;

“Well, this looks like any other console, but the memory module is separate,” comes the verdict. “It’s not connected to the system. See how the design differs?” Rodney points at the open hatch, and John frowns, shrugs.

“I haven’t studied the innards of the other consoles that closely, you know.” It’s a weak lie because he’s got plenty of experience with Jumpers and the Aurora and the City itself, and, yeah, this one’s a bit different from the standard control crystal matrix. The arrangement of the crystals could almost be described as backwards.

The frustration is evident. Rodney’s not a fan of mysteries he cannot solve, and this is a box refusing to be opened. As if it resisting. But why? The data was here before, John could see it without issue –

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

“What?” Rodney pulls himself up, dusts off his knees.

“Step outside for a second. Just want to check if …”

“- Oh, that’s not  _fair_ ," the astrophysicist grumbles, filling in the thought. “It responded to you before, ergo, it might be your natural gene or something else, and therefore the console refuses to work in my vicinity. That’s it? No, that  _can’t_  be it. This console isn’t connected to the City’s mainframe, and if there’s an AI – why would there be an AI? Why would it  _do_  that?”

“Maybe it imprinted on me. Like a duckling,” John jokes, but Rodney actually considers it, albeit rather sourly.

“It’d be just our luck. All right. Take this, and record  _everything_.” The datapad, which does have a camera and recording function, is pushed into his hands.

John can’t resist, grinning: “Is this a proposition? ‘Cause I’m a modest kind of guy.”

A roll of eyes. “Oh, just do it.”

Arms crossed – no, Rodney is definitely not a fan of uncooperative tech - the Canadian steps outside, and the wall folds itself together.

The falling gloom is immediate as no natural light reaches the room anymore. Holding up the datapad with one hand and starting a video recording, John thinks  _on_  and the console brightens: the screen fills with text. Doesn’t even ask for a password this time as if recognizing his presence from earlier. The image will be grainy but hopefully readable, so they can transcribe and translate later. He captures as much as he can.

A knock on the closed door. “So? Is it working? Talk to me.”

“Yeah, it works. Let me see if …” Yeah, that’s the button. Like last time, focus shifts, and the dais starts glowing;

The hologram returns.

Creepy is the word. The stranger with his own eyes looks at him, wordlessly, the  _volucera_  gazing at the Raven, like a silent contest. Neither of them speak; John holds his breath. Should he talk? If this  **is**  a recording - it has to be. Or it’s an AI, a not very forthcoming one, doesn’t answer questions or introduce itself or anything. Nothing like the sparsely used hologram in the Central Tower meant for education and searching the database – even talking to that one can be a pain, stilted and somewhat condescending, and obviously speaking only in Ancient. They’ve only used that one once, actually, first time they arrived. Listened to the image of the woman there speak of a nameless Enemy which Slept – words of warning as well as a brief account of history – before they’d shut that and other systems off to preserve power as the City risked flooding. Before She rose; 

This hologram is similar and yet completely different. Doesn’t ask him to input an inquiry. Doesn’t ask  _anything,_  and there is no obvious search-function on the console. Just what is its purpose?

This hologram looks right at him. Then the man smiles, an echo of  **danger** , and the image fades.

 _No, no, wait_  – John lunges forward, but can’t get it online again.

With a sigh, he ends the recording, and, sensing the all-clear – an unconscious signal across their Bond – Rodney and Meredith enter again, eagerly awaiting; “Let’s have a look.”

Rewinding. Only forty-two seconds of footage. The text comprises of a single page, unscrollable, and there are no other symbols. Rodney’s expression melts, and John doesn’t quite expect the sloppy, hasty kiss on his cheek. “Still not fair,” Rodney insists, “but this is workable.”

The astrophysicist has gotten a lot better an Ancient over the last few months but still asks John to translate. Probably because he knows that the City will help him make a more accurate translation. With a fond roll of eyes at Rodney’s insistent tone, he obeys dutifully. Few others outside of the military would be able to boss him around like that; not even close.

The text describes the Evacuation, time counted in the Ancient way as measured by the orbit of Lantea around its sun now left behind; but there is no list of names, no true manifest in that sense of the word. It keeps repeating:  _legacy_  and  _importance_  and  _remembrance,_  and Descendants.

Something about Descendants, emphasized;

The video turns, and John is activating the button; and the image fizzles out. Not completely, though. Only at the center: only when it turns toward the active dais. It’s as if the light around the hologram has become unstable, refusing to be caught on film.

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah, that’s … weird,” Rodney nods, idly. Rewinds, plays again, but the image doesn’t clear up, no matter how many times they try to view it, changing the settings, reloading the video file. No reason for it to be that way. Nothing wrong with the camera or the lighting or anything – as if the file itself became corrupted half-way. “But it was a man?”

“Yeah, and a Dæmon. Remember that Shape we tried way back, after the Siege, in the infirmary? the Ancient bat-like thing?”

“I can’t recall the name off-hand, but yes.”

“A  _volucera_. That’s what it was.”

A hum of thought: “And the guy, what did he look like? Did he say anything, or …?”

“Kind of tall, dark hair. Young. Very … very Ancient-y.” More like a kid, rather than a man, to be honest. He can’t forget those ice cold eyes, the quiet gleam in them. The kind of gaze he’s seen in the victims of war before, a passionate detachment and sorrow, and his face –  _a coincidence_. John shakes his head. _A coincidence, nothing more._ “Didn’t say anything. But he and the Dæmon looked right at me, like – well, like they  _knew_  we were here. Maybe it’s an AI? That’s how it’s aware? And since it’s disconnected from the system, Atlantis wouldn’t know about it.”

(and that smile; as if speaking)

They need to get a science team down here to look at this.

Activates the radio: “Radek, it’s McKay, you need to get a team and … Asleep, why were you asleep? It’s not even nightfall! Oh, right, day off. You can have it tomorrow. I need you to come to the North Pier right away, section B-12, the walkway corridor – and bring the … yes, and the other one.” The scientist on the other side grumbles and mutters something less than pretty in Czech. “I know that tone; don’t need to speak the language to understand. Don’t mutter at me. This might be worthwhile.” 


	19. nothing is everlasting, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _but they have the power to do things, to help –_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xix.**

# nothing is everlasting

**part one**

_but they have the power to do things, to help –_

* * *

**Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**   
**101 days after the Uprising**

* * *

They don’t have the routine in Atlantis, unlike the SGC on Earth, to call out the chevron numbers as they dial. The machinery here is just a little bit more advanced and the process quicker without human computers acting as the DHD. So Chuck, the tech, doesn’t say anything as he begins to dial.

AR-1 is gathered by the wide stairs leading to the Gate, waiting for the go-ahead. Their first mission for too many long months.

Dex is going to join them, a temporary thing to see if this is a puzzle he can fit into; Ford hasn’t seemed that enthusiastic, a bit wary, but that is to be expected. Teyla is quite open about it; she and Kanaan could be relieved not to be the only aliens on the team; the only ones who are not Tau’ri. A kind of liberation. Rodney, well, he is warming up to the idea, John thinks. Starting to be convinced that Dex is actually a pretty nice guy, rather calm and collected for someone who has been a Runner for a decade, homeless and without direction. Starting to see that Dex also have other uses than as a walking warrior like a machine with a ray gun and a sword (which is extremely extremely cool, John has to admit).

P9X-313 awaits. They’ve never been there as a team, but AR-8 established a good rapport with the villagers there after helping in the aftermath of a Culling; they have a secret offworld site where they evacuate to in emergencies like those, which they will not ever share the address too and the Lanteans won’t ask for it. They all understand the need for secrecy; the need to make the galaxy believe Atlantis to be destroyed, and for the address to the Alpha Site to remain unknown. The people there could be willing to trade if the Lanteans reveal to have good intentions. Ronon, in passing, recognizes the address to P9X-313 when spelled out in its proper Gate symbols (because the Tau’ri designations mean nothing to him). Was there briefly during his time as a Runner. Doesn’t say more; John understands what the silence means. The Wraith would’ve followed the tracker, found the village but the villagers might have escaped in time. Ronon didn’t see their secret outpost, continuing to run run run –

As the clear blue lights of the Gate begin to spin, Rodney is the final straggler to arrive – just on time. Vividly in a discussion with Radek, who is carrying a laptop. John glimpses a lot of long, complex equations. Not the same as last time, so that argument must have been settled sometime earlier today.

They’ve been trying to make sense of the console in the Chamber of Secrets (as it has already been dubbed), but come up with nothing so far. And the techs haven’t been able to clear up that recording. The hologram simply refuses to show itself, and the City doesn’t know anything; at least claims not to. It’s inherently frustrating. But life goes on. There’s work to do, always is. Once they get back from P9X-313, Rodney can get right back onto trying to unlock the mysteries of the unresponsive console.

“… no, no, this variable here, it doesn’t make sense; the result has to be negative, it’s the only thing that works,” Rodney is arguing heatedly, and Dr Zelenka grumbles something on his breath.

Ford rolls his eyes: “Ever give that a rest?” as John doesn’t even bother to ask what the question is. Instead he shifts so that he can see the screen more clearly, and his brows furrow for a moment in concentration; he’s not as swift at these things as McKay and Zelenka, but that doesn’t mean he’s clueless. Just got to think a little longer, a little harder.

The City’s hum – this warm constant: always there, never truly disappearing – is amused and belated. She helps him a bit; and is that cheating? “That next last variable needs to be inverted.”

“What – how – of course. Of course,” Radek mutters, quickly making the change. “Now  _go_ , Rodney. We’ve got this.”

“You had better,” scoffs Rodney and he sounds his usual self and John resists a fond laugh. “I want the results of those simulations on my desk by the time we’re back.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” says Radek. Used to this. Shakes his head, muttering something in Czech. Probably not completely genteel.

The fifth chevron locks. The sixth and final one begins to turn;

“Yeah, it’s time to go,” John agrees, quirking a grin. “You kids can continue whatever this is later. The folks on ‘313 are exp–”

(falling)

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

 

And everything goes quiet: he loses sight of the Raven, the Bond silencing and the City he cannot hear Her anymore  _no_   _no it can’t be_   **silencing**

* * *

It’s wrong. This is, this isn’t a Bond being gently opened, allowing for secret conversation; this isn’t his Dæmon, or the City, or Meredith and Rodney speaking with one voice;

This is a stranger and it’s wrong and wait wait he knows this face

He has stared at this stranger before and that was a hologram, a few seconds and it had stared at him, as if aware; until Rodney had arrived, dissipating into air and the data had seemed to be lost, seared into John’s memory even if the City keeps claiming that the room it was in doesn’t even exist. A secret room. A secret. The hologram of a man and his Dæmon, so eerily like himself, a mirror of when he was twenty years old and fresh-faced and afraid of the world;

This stranger is standing in front of him instead of his Dæmon and it’s wrong wrong wrong

 _Get out,_  he tries, tries so hard but cannot help visualize the Gate Room, or maybe it’s what Shy is trying to visualize for them as a last defense. It is the place they are the most familiar with, every wall every inch of floor; there’s nothing in here to fear. He tries, tries to get rid of them, but the stranger continues to be there. In a way, in a way he remembers this was how it was to communicate with Chaya Sar on Proculus. But then she had offered, and he had taken her hand; and there’d been light, abstract thought, not this actual Feeling of Being Here. This has nothing to do with consent. Dropping in uninvited. It hurts to move. Difficult and slow. Takes effort.

 _“I must admit I am impressed,”_  says a voice he recognizes and it is that stranger, the nameless one from the hologram. The stranger with his own face.  _“I hadn’t thought to meet such resistance.”_

 _Get out,_  he whispers.  _Get the fuck out of my head!_

 _“I thought it was high time to say hello,”_  the stranger goes on without hindrance. So casually and easy-going as if they’re just meeting on the street, shaking hands;

 _Stop_.

_“My name is Icarus.”_

“So what?” he manages to form the words; this is the Gate Room, yes, he is certain, but dark and there are no other people around but them; not even Dæmons. No shadow of a Raven or of the stranger’s own – Icarus? That sounds like … isn’t that an old Greek myth? Is he –

 _“An Ancient, yes, that is what you call us,”_  Icarus chuckles, picks up on the thought. John shuts his eyes tightly trying to breathe trying to get this stranger out he doesn’t want him there;  **tries** – _“There is no need to fight this.”_

“You’re an Ancient,” John says. Opens his eyes again; this is not the physical world; it doesn’t matter. “What – how did you get here?” And it strikes him the moment he says it: of course. Like Chaya Sar. Ascended. Has to be. Ascended or dead, those are the choices for an Ancient. And Chaya was able to enter his mind;

 _“At least you are no fool,”_  the guy – Icarus – says. Darkly amused.

“You’re Ascended – but still talking to me? Isn’t that like interfering, forbidden?”

_“In a manner of speaking.”_

“So it’s some kind of rule you can just ignore when you want to?” Furiously. Confused: what’s the endgame here? why is he doing this? why all this secrecy? “How come you can do this without the Others noticing and stopping you?”

who the hell is this guy? what does he  **want**?

 _“Because I am clever, Iohannes.”_  Icarus knows his name; twisted into its Ancient form, but not completely foreign. He knows his name – is it because he’s in his head? Reading his surface thoughts and digging deeper – and John tries to push him away – 

_get out get out get out;_

_“I am very clever. And I am doing this for the greater good of our species.”_  A pause.  _“I must be honest; they attempted to hinder us. We had to hide.”_  (us? we? Icarus and his Dæmon? someone else? does it matter?)  _“The universe is large – do you honestly think the Others can manage to keep an eye on it all for all of time? I used my knowledge to my advantage. I know how to be patient. And, I must admit, I am no means the only one to have done something like this. Though, perhaps, the only one to have realized the full potential of you, the Descendants.”_

_get out_

Difficult to create a barrier between them and still follow the words (curiosity peaking) and not let Icarus in further; and why can’t he hear the City anymore? Like being held back. Blocked. She would have supported him, helped him. Pushed Icarus away but now She is silent and he cannot see his Dæmon – Icarus is blocking them –  **how does he do that?**

“What do you mean?”

 _“There were some others who lingered instead of moving on, unable to let go. Oh, the Others were enraged: they sent some of their own to deal with them. You have met one. Chaya Sar._ ” A knowledgeable smile. He knows me, fleetingly passing by: this guy knows all about me. And all John has in turn is a name so mythologically unreal there is no conclusion to draw from it.  _“She always was a bother to the Council. Kept voting against them; put the desire to save the human race before the need to save her own kind. Remarkably unselfish, isn’t it?”_

Plural. Some others. There could be more – are more – Ancients hiding out, Ascended and waiting, and yet not doing anything without being destroyed by the Others and how can they do that? Anger coils through him, suddenly. The Ancients are a bunch of pretentious selfish assholes who’ve left this galaxy to rot under the threat of the Wraith, claiming independence and that interference is sin.

But they have the power to do things, to  _help_  –

The thought is heard. Causes dry, wry laughter:  _“As if they would. No, they have already been convinced that it’s the wrong thing to do. Interference means being noticed again, you see. It is what occurred to the Ori, and they – well, the Tau’ri have not encountered them, have they? No. I would keep wishing that they do not. The Ori will be furious to know that we seeded life in other galaxies without their knowledge, and did not make them … obedient.”_

Icarus is closer now. John cannot remember either of them moving. The Gate Room is almost completely dark, the Gate empty and unlit, the chevrons dead. No address to dial.

Icarus can read him like a book and John doesn’t want him here at all. He’s the reason Icarus hasn’t been caught yet – communicating like this, not on the outside, it is safer. Hidden from the Others. But John didn’t invite him. Didn’t  _choose;_

 _get_   **out**

“Chaya Sar mentioned the Ori,” John slips up, cannot help his mind from attaching to that memory; she had explained about Dæmons and Ascension and mentioned something about a deep split among the Alterans, leading to two groups – the Ori, and the Ancients. The details had been vague, passing by. He hadn’t cared much at the time, revering that she was instead providing answers about his Dæmonless state. Answers he so badly had sought.

He’s not asking for such answers anymore. He tries, tries to push Icarus out. Concentrates on creating a shield and hurling the Ancient outside of it –

_get out of my head_

_“That will not work,”_  Icarus says. Chuckles.  _“Iohannes, I am not here to harm you or take over the world or whatever else you fear. Who do think sent the message for you to find the Aurora? I so badly wished to you to save them I know you spoke with Ephesia and Daedalus.”_

A chill, searing through his bones; just how much has this guy been watching? listening in on? a spy;

The Captain of the Aurora had mentioned – now, abruptly, John recalls it: she had mentioned the City, something about the Merged, the ability to share a Bond with Her. And Ephesia had mentioned her son (before the system was lost)

 _“Yes, the Merged. Their voices never silence,”_  Icarus smiles. It fades, though, into an echo of what could be grief.  _“So she chose Ascension at last.”_

_get out_

“Yeah; she and her crew barely managed to. Wraith had infiltrated the ship and a star went nova. But I bet you know that,” John growls. If Icarus was watching why didn’t he do something – if he knew that the Wraith was in the system, stealing knowledge about the Ancient hyperdrives, why didn’t he act? so adherent to the rules and yet not, because here he is, speaking.

Interference.

Interference;

The supernova. Happened all so fast too fast –

“The supernova – that was  **you**  –!”

_“A mere nudge to speed up the already begun process; not enough to draw attention from the Others. You did not see it, Iohannes, but a Hiveship was approaching. The Aurora is far too precious to be boarded by the Enemy; it had to be done.”_

Nearly took the Tau’ri explorers with it as the star imploded. The timing had been eerie, a chance in a million if not less but they hadn’t asked questions, not even the brightest of the scientists or most curious of the marines; they hadn’t wondered why the star had, so suddenly, so abruptly, swallowed up its sister red giant and dazzled the sky with its bright intensity for an overwhelming second. They hadn’t wondered, too busy surviving.

If Icarus did that, then what else? Did he send that message? Ephesia admitted she didn’t know about it, the plead to take them home. If Icarus turned on the beacon … If he wanted them to find the Aurora, to find the crew and its Captain frozen in time forgotten alone adrift -

What other pieces of the board has Icarus been responsible of moving? And the endgame, what is his goal? So many questions, John begins to feel dizzy and he can’t maintain control, can’t control his mind or his body, can’t move, and Icarus can hear every single thought effortlessly  _he doesn’t want him here in his head_

“What the hell do you want?”

_“I come with a warning.”_

(doesn’t want him here)

_get out_

_“You are certainly persistent. Understand: I want the best for Atlantis, just as you. I share a Bond with Her, after all; do you not want to know how it works?”_

_get_

_out_

_“There are things you have to know_ – _”_

“Know what? I’m tired of this crap,” John spits. “I want nothing to do with whatever you’re up to. You Ancients created the Wraith and left us human to deal with it. Clean up your messes.”

_“We did try.”_

“Not hard enough!” he wants to scream shout hit something make  **fire,**  create fire with these mortal hands; “You’ve got the ability to Ascend but can’t save this galaxy from your own mess? Millions of people have died because of the Wraith –”

(Sateda and Athos burning all of the planets burning their populations Culled into submission  _they could have stopped it_  they could have saved)

_“Iohannes –”_

_out_

_OUT_

_“Iohn, listen to me.”_

_GET THE FUCK OUT OF_

A shield; a shield; a barrier of energy rising (like holding back the storm) a shield. He envisions it in multicolor and focuses as if his mind were a city and the shield  **the shield**

_OUT_

_“Listen to me: there is –”_

**_OUT_ **

Icarus doesn’t fade quietly but suddenly abruptly he’s gone it’s empty he’s gone he’s gone;

And John can open his eyes, vision blurry. Sweating with effort and it’s difficult to breathe, as if he has spent half an eternity under water, some stranger’s hand forcing him under;


	20. nothing is everlasting, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _there’s an Ancient in the City._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xx.**

# nothing is everlasting

**part two**

_there’s an Ancient in the City._

* * *

“… think he’s waking up. Carson!”

“No need to shout, Rodney. I’m right here. Give him some room, now. Colonel Sheppard? Can you hear us?”

Loudly. Too loudly. His head is pounding.

He tries to nod. Sees Rodney and Carson and Ford and Teyla above. Jeez, what is this, a party? Tries to sit up, too difficult. This sterile smell; it has to be the infirmary. Oh no, not again. What even –

The Gate Room. They were standing in front of the Stargate just about to leave. The wormhole starting to exist. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Everyone in the Control Room must’ve seen him go down. Great. Awesome. He blinks, tries to clear his vision. His head hurts like the worst hangover indescribable and there was no pleasant buzz beforehand.

His throat is dry, and his hands slightly numb. Body lead-heavy and he can’t really move for a second, drawing breath. Shit. An Ancient. He’s here, and he’s got to –

The lights grow dim. The City feeling his pain and reacting; or perhaps he is subconsciously controlling the tech again, he’s not sure. Doesn’t matter. The slight darkness helps his eyes, releases some of the tension and the pain. A startled murmur, from Carson or maybe Ford – but John doesn’t flinch, relaxing in relief because the Bonds which had been blocked before are now whole an unhindered –  _[What happened? We were suddenly hurting and falling. Are you all right?]_  Shy asks frantically. He can feel the City’s hum to, familiar and warm and a constant tone, welcome in this confusing moment.

 _Yeah_.

In hindsight: not really. He tries to sit up again, and Carson tries to stop him. “Easy there. You were lucky you didn’t hit your head in that fall.”

“Feels like it,” he manages to joke.

“You have a headache?” An offer of water; he declines. No. He’s got to talk with Weir and the others. Warn them. Rodney fusses in that way of his, and John lets him. Teyla is frowning. Inquiring Carson softly, because John wouldn’t just collapse without reason, without cause. She and Ford are thrumming with anxiety in a different way than Rodney.

Carson checks his pupils’ reaction to light and his pulse, the usual stuff. Says, an undertone of concern: “Nothing seems to be physically wrong with you, lad. As far as I can tell, anyway.” The doc explains that they put him under the scanner and the images came back oddly distorted, unclear. Didn’t make sense. As if the machine itself was being overloaded and ceased to function properly. The pictures were useless. There’s no fever or other outward sign of his body being ill.

Plus, the City behaved oddly, for the lack of a better word, that same second he collapsed. It floods his system, the knowledge from Her directly before Rodney can explain it; She hadn’t been able to speak with him while he was under.

 _[Well, that can’t be good],_ Shy remarks dryly.

“There was some kind of glitch in the computer systems,” Rodney says. “For a minute there nothing responded, not even the Gate – it froze in the middle of the dialing sequence, between the fifth and the sixth chevron. We managed to shut it down though. Radek is running a diagnostic now.”

“How long was I out?”

A glance onto a wristwatch. “Just about sixteen minutes,” Ford says, stiffly like reporting bad news. Stands there uncomfortably concerned, hands resting loosely on the P90 clipped to his TAC vest and his straight back, unsure what to do. He and the rest of them, they’re not used to seeing him like this because he’s not meant to be down. He’s meant to be standing up and leading them.

“Do you remember what happened?” the Scottish doc asks gently.

“Yeah.” They’ve got a problem. A problem that could be bigger than any of them realizes at this point. “We were in the Gate Room, about to leave for ‘313. Then I got this sudden headache – very sharp. Sort of like needles in my eyes.” Carson presses for more details: a description of location and a scale from one to ten, if he can recall. He does. The glaring light. The prickling growing noise as if someone had forcibly hacked down a wall to enter;

“Gave us a bit of a scare, sir,” Ford laughs nervously. John can imagine it. The Raven plucked out of the sky – assuring him that they’re okay, thought. Tumbled into a roll and silenced, feathers ruffled, but didn’t break any bones.

“I can’t think of a risk of this fainting spell,” Carson says, confounded. “There is no sign of dehydration or overheating or –”

“There’s none, doc,” John cuts him off. “There’s an Ancient in the City.”

“ **Wha** t?!”

(a choir)

“Wait, what?” Rodney repeats. Dumbfounded. Stares at him. “Since when is there –?” Then: a glimpse of realization. “An Ascended Ancient, here in the City?”

“Yeah, I think so. That guy in that hologram? It wasn’t a hologram. It was him. He was sort of in my head.”

“In your head?” Ford asks, wide-eyed. Frowns. “I thought the Ancients wouldn’t have anything to do with us mere mortals.”

If only. Another resistance to laugh, this time wryly. “Turns out this guy is Ascended and he’s hiding from the Others for whatever reason – interference is my guess. By talking directly to me like that he managed to keep it secret from the Others.”

“Did you get a name?” Rodney needs to know, and John understands this; if this was an Ancient they’d heard about before, had caught a reference of this, even in old myths, it could leave a clue. However John has heard the name before and that makes nothing clearer to him.

“Yeah. Uh, Icarus.”

“Like that Greek myth?” Ford asks, and Teyla doesn’t understand the reference of course – there is so much yet of Earth she doesn’t know, just like there’s so much about Athos and its history the Tau’ri have no clue about. “Huh.”

John nods, regretting it immediately because  _ouch._  “Spoke in riddles half of the time. The name was pretty much all I got before I managed to push him out.”

Through this discussion, he becomes aware, Dex has been present too, silent in a corner, a bit away from the others. Not really part of the team yet. Now he speaks up. “An Ancestor made contact with you?”

And today was meant to be good. Normal _._

_That’s the Pegasus galaxy for you._

And the follow-up questions come, of course. It’s Elizabeth, who is just arriving, having overheard the radio chatter no doubt. Or maybe the City alerted her that he’s awake by tapping into her laptop or something. Now she joins them and wants answers, and John catches her up, watching her closely. Weir’s eyes brighten with hope, but crosses her arms in confusion and she is clearly bothered.

Thus far, their track record of the Ancients hasn’t been awesome. Turned out that the Ancients did so much without cleaning up after themselves – the Wraith being the prime example. An experiment gone wrong, or an accident because of neglect; it doesn’t matter. The combination of human and Iratus bug (John shudders at the mere thought) became more than a contained singularity, it became a plague to haunt all of Pegasus. There are other things too. Failed devices. Their ability to Ascend and their reluctance of helping out and the refusal of interfering to save lives. Things which have made them all, Elizabeth included, look at the Ancients with a less bright outlook than before. In the beginning, all they knew was that the Ancients were one of the Four Races, they were the Gate-Builders and they were supposedly the Good Guys. Now? They’re not sure.

Bad eggs and good eggs, all from the same box. Some are okay. Chaya Sar, she gave them a  _potentia_ , she gave them a shield and hope. But others? Not so much. And this Icarus, where is he on the gradient scale?

Is he on the scale at all?

Right then the radios in their ears crackle, the frequency used by senior staff and for important messages. It’s Zelenka.

_“Rodney, you’d better come to the Control Room right away.”_

* * *

They all go.

John is relieved that his feet are steady and it’s gradually become easier to move, and Carson lets him follow the others, under the strict command to return at once if he feels any kind of side effects. A bit like the aftermath of vertigo, but altogether different. The frightening thing is that it might –  _could_  – happen again. He pushed Icarus out this time but next? Could he handle that?

Icarus managed to block the Bond with bot the City and Shy. Now, aware of this, he clings to his Dæmon closely both physically and mentally. Focuses, to make this his shield. And the City watches him closely, now knowing of this threat.

The thing is, She has never mentioned an Ancient hanging around here. No warning. So either Icarus has just recently arrived here, or he’s been hiding out.

A room that wasn’t on the schematics. A hologram that doesn’t exist.

“Whatever happened affected the whole City core, every system tied in to it, including the Gate,” Radek explains. Chuck is sitting next to him, typing rapidly on a keyboard; still analyzing the event. For the moment all Gate activity has ceased and they’ve pulled the control crystal to make sure no wormhole can be established; AR-9, meant to be dialing back in about now from their last mission, are going to have to sit tight for a while. A message is being relayed to the Alpha Site, a brief subspace burst, to inform them of the situation. That’s where AR-9 and all other offworld teams will have to go until this thing is sorted out. “We’ve checked some computers that weren’t tied into the City’s power grid or connected to the intranet, and they show no trace of any glitch.”

“So it was localized,” Rodney concludes. “An attack on the City’s system itself, and anything connected to it.”

“An attack?” Elizabeth asks worriedly, arms crossed.

It’s the last thing they need.

Radek nods, adjusts his glasses. “Technically speaking. It seems to have behaved a bit like a malware but gone without leaving traces of the virus itself, only the damage.”

“But the damage  _is_  repairing itself,” Rodney fills in. Makes some adjustments on his datapad. “The City reacted to it and began to counteract just seconds later.”

“Maybe it’s not a virus,” John says. Gives Rodney a sharp look, and the Canadian inhales a curse. Zelenka looks merely confused. Not aware of the discussion earlier, the fact that there’s an Ancient hovering around;

Is Icarus listening right now?

“So the question is,” Rodney says, “why would this …  _Icarus_  … do this?”

Teyla sounds startled. A little disappointed. Why would an Ancestor attack Atlantis’ systems? Genuinely confused – and who wouldn’t be? This action, it doesn’t make sense. They don’t have all the pieces. The motivations, because there has to be some kind of motivation somewhere. What drives Icarus? What’s the endgame? “I thought Atlantis was the Ancestors’ home.”

“Yeah, which is why it makes no sense,” Rodney says. “An Ancient wouldn’t have to hack into their own City. Would they?”

(The eternal question.)

“We’re still analyzing all the data,” Radek says. Gaze flickering. What is this about Ancients and some guy named after a Greek myth? he must be wondering. “There is a lot to look at.”

“Keep at it,” Weir instructs. “John, I am suspending all Gate activity from this moment until this is sorted out. If there really is an Ancient here, with the ability to hack into the City, we have no idea what kind of damage could be done to us.”

John agrees. “We should –”

“– unplug as many computers from the City, yes,” Rodney fills in: “Wipe them and switch to clean backups as far as we can. Better turn off the intranet as well, just in case.”

They don’t have a plan to stop him, though. To stop Icarus from repeating what he did and John, suddenly, feels more than uneasy. This is fear: the lack of control, he couldn’t move, he’d collapsed in the Gate Room and what if that happens again?

He’d just barely managed to push him out –

what if it happens again?

A nod from Elizabeth. “Do it.”

* * *

A self-induced lock-down is essentially what they’re enforcing. Everyone has been notified and, being the SGC and all, they’re pretty used to strange things happening. Unusual orders and unthinkable words. So when news spread of an Ancient possibly being in the City, people whisper about it but it’s not like the murmurs of the Wraith, or the fears of a Siege. Some react more positively than others. Others with fear, or disdain, or a twinge of disbelief. They may not have believed it if not for the fact John’s passing out was such a public thing, in front of a few dozen people, including his whole team. Not that anyone would dare to use this against him. In the first months, maybe; not anymore. They wouldn’t dare. A perk of rank. 

_Ha._

The Daedalus was meant to leave in a couple of days to place a number of sensors in the deeper reaches of Pegasus so as to warn the City of any Wraith movements, and drop off supplies for the Aurora. If time allowed, they would also recon a few planets on the edge of the galaxy where there are no Gates (rumors of dark reaches with Wraith Bases; maybe even an ultimate Wraith Homeworld). All of that will have to be postponed, the ship grounded until the situation has been resolved. Colonel Caldwell is not pleased.

“How can we be certain that there really is an Ancient here?” the Colonel demands and there’s something with his voice as he says this – the word:  _Ancient_  – which puts John on the edge. He can’t define it.

He, the Colonel, Weir, Bates and Rodney are in a meeting in the Conference Room. One of the data screens is cycling through a quick but complex presentation of all the analyses done so far by Rodney and his team of scientists and techs. A couple of simulations run, trying to pinpoint exactly how this happened: a cascade, Rodney describes it as, which began in the very core of the City’s system. Places they haven’t dared to poke at too hard in fear of failure. The error spread rapidly to everything and anything connected to the City. Including its AI.

To have it put so bluntly is … it’s frightening. To know that the City, all that makes Her  _Atlantis_ , it was interrupted for a few seconds; and was that why he passed out? was She always a part of his defenses and he hasn’t known? or was it a coincidence which Icarus took advantage of?

Too many unknown variables.

“Colonel, I spoke with him,” John says. “He’s definitely here.”

He’s not sure why he thinks that the Colonel’s voice is somehow harsher and his voice briefer now than they were the first time they met, during the Siege, or the time after until returning to Pegasus _. [Maybe he just woke up on the wrong side of bed.]_

“Not to mention the City-wide glitch,” adds Rodney with a grunt.

(Atlantis had silenced completely – more than just a glitch.)

“How do we make sure this doesn’t happen again?” Elizabeth asks.

“Well, we can’t,” Rodney says and it is unusual for him to admit defeat so quickly. A simply statement. “Look, we can take preventive measures to protect the City’s system, like we would if encountering a virus; create firewalls and anti-malware. Zelenka’s team is already on it. But other than that … not much. Plus, this is not a program or even an AI that we’re dealing with. This is an Ancient who, by all accounts, sounds like he’s off his rocker. He must have extensive knowledge about Atlantis to be able to do this and I don’t see why he  _wouldn’t_  – being an Ancient and all. And it’s not like we know how to code anti-malware for Sheppard’s head.”

Not very comforting to hear. To know that it’s partly his fault this happened. If he hadn’t found that console and activated it, maybe this wouldn’t –

But Caldwell continues as if the logic of this discussion is beyond him, and usually it would not be: “Still, I don’t see why the Daedalus must be grounded. What difference does it make if we continue our mission?”

“If,” Weir counters, “the City experiences another glitch we could lose systems. If we lose the ability to communicate, or the shields, or any other number of other things - without the Daedalus we would be essentially defenseless. We need you here in case the Wraith –”

“The Wraith don’t know that Atlantis is here.”

(Another uncharacteristic thing: to cut Elizabeth off like that, mid-sentence. Undermining her authority.)

“And we plan to keep it that way, Colonel,” John reminds him, sharply. Why is Colonel behaving all stubborn all of a sudden? A slight frown; that gaze. Oddly cold and distanced, as if looking for something else, at something else – the way he says the City’s name;

And he feels it again: not as suddenly as before, taking over completely, but just as sharply. It’s like white light across his eyes and the sensation of vertigo, of falling, but without pulling Gs and there is no comfort in it. He might be falling off his chair, he doesn’t know;

* * *

Suddenly, suddenly he’s in the Gate Room again.

He can’t hear the City. But he can hear Shy, now, at least; trapped here with him - and Icarus looks at him decisively:  _“Do not fight this,”_  he says. An order. John wants to disobey.

 _“Get the fuck_   **out of my head** _!”_

out out out out

_“I cannot do that yet.”_

He might be moving. It feels, in a way, like muscles straining pulling shifting bones blood heartbeats like he is outside of his physical body yet fully, far too fully, aware of it: each breath, the constricting of lungs, the splicing of cells and the neverending copying destruction repairing of DNA: he feels but his hands are not his own as he lunges forward. Stands up, reaches out.

Hears distantly: the outcry: Elizabeth and Rodney and Bates, the shock, what is he doing, questions, he isn’t speaking he isn’t speaking and they must see, they have to realize STOP ME he tries to scream. STOP ME, as he is reaching for his 9mil. Always so comfortingly carried with him in its thigh holster. Bates’ wide eyes Rodney’s shout of  _what the hell John what are you_ –and Weir:  _Sheppard! Stand down!_

STOP ME, he wants to scream,  _this isn’t me_

_no no no no_

thumb releasing the safety a shadow on the trigger and he’s pointing it right at Colonel Caldwell’s face

_get out_

GET OUT

It doesn’t work this time.

Icarus, controlling each nerve of his body, is very very calm and if he’s speaking in Ancient or English, John doesn’t know:  _“This has to be done to protect Atlantis,”_ he says too calm all too calm and John struggles, struggles; he WILL NOT CEASE;

**NO**

A jerk. Muscles. A fraction of control. His arm. He cannot stop his finger from pulling the trigger but launches himself at Icarus at himself tries to stop and the shot goes wide: arm snatched upward as if by an unseen force.  _Get out!_  he keeps shouting, and struggles, like a seizure. Forces.

 **STOP**.

He – Icarus – both; they drop the gun. It clatters loudly like thunder; the bullet had been deafening, cleaving the air. Buried in the wall above Caldwell’s skull. As if he wasn’t Caldwell but Kolya, and John was going to blow his brains out too;

A weight atop of his back and it will leave bruises as he hits the ground, stumbles of a chair, awkwardly. But he is grateful for it. Bates restrains him, kicks away the gun out of reach and John finally breathes as his whole body goes entirely slack.

Icarus is gone. Gone gone gone -

* * *

“Oh my god, what just happened,” Rodney is ranting. Dazed. “What the hell just happened?!”

Bates still hasn’t let go. Caldwell is standing. Cannot see him from this angle; he could be shaken, because he’s silent. At least not uttering death-threats so there’s that. And finally John manages to rasp, shakingly: “Icarus. Was here.”

“You went all Terminator,” Rodney gasps. “The expression on your face was … Are you –?”

“Me.” Voice hoarse and weak. As if all of his body was tensed up when trying to fight off Icarus. “Not … five seconds ago.”

Elizabeth and Simon are standing close together. The pressure on his shoulder blades loosens as Bates slowly releases his grip, knee stopping to dig in there. Yeah, that will bruise. Wonderful. Two times in a day.

_[I was so worried. We couldn’t move.]_

A glance to his side. Shy has been sitting still atop the back of an empty chair, like frozen – like being hindered from moving – all through this episode. Flexes their wings now carefully, and John feels a lingering ache. As if hands had physically held them both down.

_If this happens again …_

A hesitant: “Sir? You going to flip out if I let go?”

“No, Sergeant. But you’re going to want to get a stunner.”

 _If this happens again_  is unmentioned and unnecessary. Bates understands, nods, conflicted. Grabs a radio and orders Private Lindsay in the armory to fetch a couple of Wraith stunners stat. The Private doesn’t dare to question it, but has got to wonder what’s going on this time. Last time stunners were issued inside the City itself, there was an Uprising.

_If this happens again;_

[we could not stop him], Atlantis whispers. And She says the oddest thing: [we know him too well].


	21. nothing is everlasting, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“do you not see that what I am trying to do is necessary?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xxi.**

# nothing is everlasting

**part three**

_“do you not see that what I am trying to do is necessary?”_

* * *

He insists on a security detail, armed with stunners. A request met with raised eyebrows in disbelief from the four marines assigned this duty – Corporal MacGrimmon and his team – but John is dead serious, and both Bates and Weir agree (though he can see that they don’t like it). But he flipped out, as Bates put it, right there in the Conference Room without warning and nearly killed Caldwell in a single stroke; what if it happens again?

What if it happens again?

Their orders are very simple. To not let him out of their sight. Allowed to stun him at any sign of something being out of the ordinary. As all Gate travel is suspended, this at least gives AR-4 something to do. And they seem a bit hesitant but say Yes sir and will follow orders, even those as strange as this one. John explains to them, in simple terms, how he nearly killed Caldwell. Makes a bit easier for them if they hesitate to shoot because, well, it might just be a Wraith stunner but he’s still their CO. After all that crap with Colonel Everett and the chaos of the Uprising – they don’t want to be fighting one of their own. Firing at one of their own. Live rounds or not, it doesn’t matter.

Caldwell suggests a cell. John is very prepared to agree, but Elizabeth frowns and Rodney says he needs to check out the hologram in the Chamber of Secrets, and John should be there with him to unlock it; with Weir’s permission, they go.

The hologram room, or Icarus’ hiding place, or whatever the hell it actually is, is placed low down where water once reached, breaching the corridors. The walls still show signs of flooding, but the floors has been cleaned and the odd pieces of furniture which once were here have been placed into storage, too damaged to be usable with still salvaged because its Ancient and all things Ancient, even furniture, has to be studied. They go, he, Rodney, a couple of scientists, and AR-4. The team looks wary and tense, though Lieutenant DeSalle seems sort of bored. Would be. This is after all so-called  _babysitting duty_  and no marine looks forward to that.

The room is like he recalls it. Empty except for the dais and the console, buttons untouched. No schematic; the City cannot trace them here. Like a blind spot. It’s unnerving. If this place doesn’t exist according to Her, then what else does?

(He thought he knew the City better than this.)

Radek, Rodney, and the tech set to work. Not the first time they’ve been here but none of their previous investigations have given any results whatsoever. So they start from scratch, again. Confirming Rodney’s initial thoughts that there is no power here: this room is not connected to the Core, to the  _potentiae_. Not even the lamps, it turns out. An internal power-source instead; though exactly what it is remains unclear. One single  _potentia_  could power this room for ten thousand years without issue if it’s just the lights; but the console must require more energy if there is really data there.

Like last time, it doesn’t want to turn on. And they can’t let him out of sight, let him be alone in here to activate it – John flat-out refuses to give that order. So they pull the panels apart and take out the crystals, one after the other, trying to hack into the system that way. At one point the lights flicker, angrily, and AR-4 snap around, but there’s no enemy in sight. John watches, arms crossed. Can’t really contribute. The tech talk is going way over his head, mostly because he’s too distracted to concentrate properly.

Who the hell is Icarus, and what’s he got to do with this? Why’s he doing it? And why’s he picking John’s head to invade over anyone else’s?

“So – anything?” he asks after a while of watching the scientists having a go without apparent success.

Rodney, furiously multitasking, has got his datapad hooked to the dais where the hologram had earlier appeared, as well as a laptop at work with some of the crystals. Doesn’t look up. “This makes no sense,” he mutters. “If the projectors are …” trailing off; a murmur, one which no one can catch.

A moment of silence, and John clears his throat. “You didn’t finish that sentence out loud, you know.”

No forthcoming answer.

Next to the Canadian, Zelenka is trying to synchronize the data storage crystals directly with one of their own computers to get more data. Nothing happens. He swears and shakes his head. “Have tried several times, but all the data I get is the same: there is no actual memory on any of these crystals. They are blank, no output.”

And Rodney pauses to frown. “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

“Here, look. See?”

“Hmm.”

John may not speak their language but the laptop screen does look suspiciously empty. “So there’s actually nothing there?”

“Pretty much, yes,” Radek says, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

The room doesn’t exist. Like a blind spot: according to the City, there’s nothing here. Nothing for the internal sensors to pick up. Like a pocket of space and time folded in on itself to create a negative, where no lifesigns can be detected and nothing will be recorded. And John shares a look with Rodney, and again, he and Meredith with common words speak, across a Bond that no one else knows about:  _This has to be Icarus._

It can be nothing else. An illusion planted by an Ancient, possibly thousands of years ago. But  _why_ …?

“How can there not be any data?” muses Radek aloud, turning to discuss ideas with the tech. But they can find no clear answers. Doubtingly. Frustrating. “Has it been deleted?”

And for the third time that day, John feels that same headache: a glare of light and it is nothing like the joy of a Bond being shared, the thrum of flight; it is nothing like freedom. He fights it harder than ever but still loses sight of the place he is in, instead standing in the Gate Room again;

* * *

 _“You truly associate this place with home,”_  Icarus muses. Reaches out to touch the imaginary Stargate in the darkness, almost like it was real.  _“Why wouldn’t you let me save Her?”_

 _“Save Her? from_   **what** _?”_  John shouts at him. Getting real fucking tired of this shit. He didn’t ask for his mind to be invaded;

* * *

Then another kind of light and the tingling burning of nerves which he knows can only a stunner, and the millisecond before he hits the ground he has full control of his flesh again. Relief of being freed – but it is fleeting.

Something means to destroy Atlantis.

Something means to destroy –

* * *

He comes to in a cell. Flexes, muscles sore as if after a fight hand-to-hand, an intense  _banto’a_  sparring session. Doesn’t make sense. The Raven is there, coming to the moment he does. Curled up in his jacket, awkwardly because they’re really too large for it; wait, no, not his jacket, shoulders have got the wrong color. Blue.

 _Rodney_ , he realizes, sharply; Rodney must’ve done that.  _Thank you._

Realizes he can’t sit up or even move, because he’s lying flat on a bed that’s borrowed from the infirmary, and his wrists and feet have been cuffed to the frame. And he knows why: with his gene, he can break free, force open the bars and lower the energy field surrounding the cell. But this physical prison he might not be able to overcome.

The combination of a killer headache and the lingering effects of the stunner …  _[Please don’t let this happen a fourth time]_ , Shy pleads knowing it might be futile because Icarus is still out there and so adamant to communicate directly with him this way, in order to avoid the Others;

Icarus had said the words and sent along the sensation of another thought, much more definite: there is someone, something here in Atlantis and they have a plan to destroy the City;

Why? To avoid the Wraith? to gain power? to destroy the Gate which is the only link to another galaxy, Avalon? _The Gate_. They mean to destroy the Gate and the City and everyone within it –

A hesitant voice on the other side of the looking glass: “Sheppard?”

It’s Rodney, he’s got Meredith held close in his arms. Anxiously, and trying not to show it. For the moment it’s just them, the four of them with bars and a force field between them. And John knows how feeble an attempt this could be, because he has a link with the City, he knows the security codes; he could easily open this cell, break out;

Icarus could use his body to do it in a flash. He shivers at the thought.  _This is reaching the top ten of most screwed up days_.

The look on Rodney’s face is haunting. A red blinking dot in a corner: they’ve set up security cams, Tau’ri stuff, separate from the system of the City. They’re watching his every move, every breath, every spoken word. A pit of dread comes to rest in his stomach.

“Hey.”

“You’re back, oh, thank god. You – in the hologram room.”

“What did I do?”

“You sort of stiffened up,” Rodney recalls with a conflicted face. Not liking the memories. “Mer and I, we could … we noticed that something wasn’t right. Then you tried to leave. Knocked one of the marines – MacDonald? MacGyver? – out cold.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll live. Then, whatshername, the Brit, she stunned you.”

Lance Corporal Gladys. At least someone reacted appropriately and just in the nick of time. He’s kind of tempted to give her a promotion for that. Would give lots of people a headache just to think about such a paradox: shoot your CO, get a golden star. Almost tempted if only to confound and annoy the IOA and the brass back on Earth. “Thanks.”

“You’re  _thanking us_  for stunning you and putting you in a cell and for –” Rodney exclaims, heatedly; of course certainly thinking that he makes no sense at all.

“I mean it,” John cuts in. “If you hadn’t stopped me people could’ve been hurt. Died.”

This causes Rodney to deflate a little. “Do you know what Icarus tried to do this time?”

“Yeah.” A breath, inhale, exhale. Anxious, even if he knows in his heart that the statement will be believed. “Apparently he tried to save the City.”

Correction: this is among the top three of most screwed up days.

* * *

Rodney leaves when called by Radek again less than half an hour later. Something about the glitch returning even if they turned the intranet off and this is no usual virus, it cannot be contained. It unfolds like a powerful AI meant to freeze every computer and take full control. It’s not Tau’ri technology; and it seems, now, it might not be Ancient either from the way it moves. After all, that makes little sense: an Ancient wouldn’t infiltrate his own City like this. No. It’s an intruder far worse. John watches him and Meredith go, uncertain. Doesn’t want to see them leave – there is a threat in this City and he’s not sure what or how, except it plans to overthrow them all and blow the City to pieces; how? an overload? a hidden device? the virus itself?

He doesn’t spend a long time in the cell. Far shorter than he’d thought. Doesn’t dare to drowse off, in case Icarus attempts to make contact again; and he does, of course he does and John gasps, feeling the onslaught and shuts his eyes tightly. The pain isn’t that bad this time. Either he’s getting used to it, or –

A sharp pain, the cuffs snapped apart like matchsticks and John tries to stop him stop him stop him;

 _Tell me that resistance is futile and I’ll shoot you,_ he whispers furiously as they’re standing in the Gate Room again. Except they are not, because this time Icarus hovers on the fringes of his mind rather than immobilizing it completely. John can open his eyes and still see the cell bars right in front of him and Shy, they both can – no. they cannot move, limbs heavy. Icarus is making them move instead. Standing up. And at once he realizes what Icarus means to do, because there is a Goa’uld in the City and the Ancient will stop at nothing to save Atlantis;

_a Goa’uld_

_a_   **Goa’uld**

_how, how the hell_

_“Do you not see that what I am trying to do is necessary?”_

But John refuses. refuses to move. because Icarus wants him to kill but there must be some other way; some other way without bloodshed.

The City is silencing. Something messing with Her voice and it has to be, has to be Caldwell - the snake. Tampering with the systems. And he hears, distantly, the weak struggle and the warnings: a copy is being made. Rewritten. The Goa’uld means to destroy the City –

They both hear it: the ticking starting like a countdown. People in the Control Room wondering what’s going on when, suddenly, the Gate begins to dial. But Rodney pulled the crystals earlier to make sure no Gate activity could occur – so that Icarus wouldn’t escape that way – and the dialing process halts after the final chevron, unable to get a lock.

 _We’ll do this my way,_  John insists. tries to;

And Icarus, it’s difficult, too difficult to push him out; again; and they stand, their body not his own entirely anymore and the City senses this. An echo of rejoice. Knows him too well, she had said. Just  _who_  …?

The cell bars open, the force field deactivating with a thought. John cannot stop their feet from moving. Icarus raises their hand, and the guard – Sanchez – blinks in confusion, stunner half-raised when suddenly he collapses. _No no no_ –

_“Don’t worry.”_

For a moment he sees what Icarus sees and feels hears listens and Sanchez is breathing. Alive. Unconscious. The powers of an Ascended being rest right there in his hands, and John finds it difficult to breathe as he begins to realize the scope of this, the reality of it. As if the atoms of the air are no longer untouchable invisible indivisible but something to be tamed. All atoms are. Icarus is energy and the energy is flowing right through him too;

They step out of Detention, heading up the next corridor. Two marines, Hester and Oakley, pass them by in the next hallway: surprised, they cry out, wonder what’s going on, demand him to stop. Oakley has a stunner. Is prepared to raise it; and Icarus simply moves his wrist, and their weapons leave their grips.  _Stop it_ , John tries, because there is no need for this, this **charade** ; Icarus could help them without doing this –

Hester and Oakley are stunned for a moment. Just standing there. And John realizes then that they can’t move, as if their limbs are being held in place, their Dæmons too frozen in time and only their eyes are moving. A shiver of disbelief and fear and that well-known feeling of  _what the actual fuck_ – Icarus moves past them, unhindered.

They’re headed toward the Core.

* * *

Three separate AR-teams are sent as security and Bates is crying orders into a radio. The City is all muffled and someone is poking around in there. Trying to find a weakness to destroy Her utterly. The virus was launched by an enemy which grew strong after the Ancients died; the Goa’uld fear the Ancients, but they rarely if ever faced them. By the time they conquered worlds and started enslaving humans, the Ancients were gone from Avalon – dead or Ascended.

Despite the chaos of Her mind, they can navigate Her halls with ease and by now people in the Control Room have picked this up, following the stray lifesigns headed to the Core. As they reach the beautifully carved doors they are closed and AR-4 is standing in front of them, DeSalle and Kemp kneeling, Gladys and MacGrimmon standing behind. Stunners and a taser aimed at his chest. MacGrimmon commands a powerful voice:

“Sir, stand down!”

But John cannot stop them from moving. Icarus almost sighs, like this is a game he’s tired off. A slight movement of wrist again, like with Hester and Oakley and the effect is the same: weapons forcibly tugged from hands, landing several meters away. AR-4 cannot move a muscle as Icarus in John’s body walks past them very calmly, like royalty striding to his throne. The three  _potentiae_  are gleaming brilliantly with light and Icarus approaches the control console. Presses the right combinations and security codes – plucked from John’s mind because they certainly weren’t the same ten thousand years ago. John tries tries tries to stop him; he knows what Icarus is doing and John has never truly been away from Her voice ever since he got here over a year ago. Grown so used to it - heard it in his dreams and now  _no no no_   **no NO**

Icarus, on the other hand, remains calm.  _“There is no need to panic,”_  he says.  _“The City will remain.”_

The  _potentiae_  rise, disconnecting.

The effect is immediate: the City loses all power. If Her voice was faint and distorted before, it is now completely gone gone gone

The lights go out.

 


	22. oracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _is this their first reunion since the Long Siege, ten thousand Terran years ago?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xxii.**

# oracle

_is this their first reunion since the Long Siege, ten thousand Terran years ago?_

* * *

John comes to.

Not in the Gate Room – not even lying on the floor of the Core Room. He’s in the Control Room, standing by one of the consoles with a hand raised, and there’s Dex and Teyla and Rodney and Ford, and Weir, and a couple of security teams and scientist. Like any normal day. There’s also Caldwell, and John has a vague memory of the man shouting and demanding answers and then; then a glow of yellow eyes and a voice that wasn’t his, his Dæmon far too quiet, too subdued;

it was being held on a leash and no one realized.

John remembers stalking into the Control Room and pulling out a taser. Where he’d gotten it – unclear. Snatched it from a marine, passing by. He has not memory of harming anyone with his own hands, no touch, but he does remember the flow of energy in the darkness, the halls unlit and the doors being opened by force instead of automatically. His ATA-gene not mattering anymore when there’s no power no  _potentiae_  the City silent silent  **silent**

And he had stood in front of Caldwell, and aimed and spoken in a language he cannot recall ever learning; he couldn’t move couldn’t move. Icarus had used not the language of the Ancients but the guttural tongue of the Goa’uld, and Caldwell had replied in the same -  _We will not let you destroy Atlantis;_ the stagger of surprise in the Goa’uld’s expression, twisted and dark and guns had been cocked, loaded, whispers of shock in the background like radiation, noise that didn’t matter, Icarus didn’t care.

“Your plan has failed,”Icarus had said, in the language of the Goa’uld, spoken with his tongue his body his voice it’d hurt it’d felt so wrong  _he couldn’t stop it_.

The Ancient was addressing the Goa’uld by name.

The Goa’uld had seemed surprised that the shape of John knew to pronounce it. And it could not have seen that John’s body was being controlled by another kind of parasite, clinging to his bones and heartbeat, forcing his hand. And then it had seemed afraid, for the first and only time: afraid, realizing that before it stood not some Tau’ri but an Ancient, the only beings whom the Goa’uld had feared.

The Goa’uld would try to destroy the City; and what more efficient way than to overload the  _potentiae?_  That’s why he tampered with Her systems, to override it. Rewrite the protocols. The Goa’uld responsible for this must be clever, patient, have so many resources and stolen knowledge. Taken over Caldwell himself, one of the highest ranking officers of the SGC – so Stargate Command itself could be infiltrated; they must be warned; _they must be warned;_

And in the middle of this, John can recall hearing Steven Caldwell pleading for aid. to be free from weeks, from months of captivity in his own body. his Dæmon silenced, merely a shell walking around to fool everyone else;

And the Goa’uld had said: “You cannot stop us.” and John recalls his hand rising, the taser pointed directly at Caldwell’s chest. Finger ready on the trigger. _The Goa’uld is afraid. It hesitates._

The last thing Icarus had done was raise his hand and there was this light, invisible and unquenchable, and Caldwell’s expression changed. His body arced, and the Goa’uld screamed. The flash had lasted for half an eternity.  _He’s dying, he’s dying,_  John had thought cried tried to stop it but couldn’t move couldn’t move, and then Caldwell had collapsed. The yellow of his eyes had faded, as if the Goa’uld was no more it is no more no more – yes, Icarus shows him: the creature is dead, removed swiftly before it could release its deadly poison –

 _no bloodshed_  John had insisted; and Icarus had actually listened. A remnant of human, of emotion, of grief;

He’d taken over his flesh because this way, this way he could at least for a time circumvent the rules of the Others, Their fixed notion of non-interference. This is nothing but interference, but  _We have to save Her_ plays on repeat and John, John thinks he might have done the same if their positions were reversed. Done anything, everything to ensure the City’s safety.

Caldwell is collapsed and for a moment there is no such thing as time. All is quiet, and they’re in the Gate Room, a single lantern hanging overhead and the stars of night streaming past the windows. The Gate is silent, and everyone else – Elizabeth, the concern on her face; the marines and their guns; Rodney and Meredith and the utter confused panic in their expressions, they have all ceased to be; as if Icarus has brought them outside of spacetime itself.

Someone else is there, in the corner of perception. John recognizes her, shocked. Captain Ephesia is clad in white light, and Icarus turns to her.  _“You have come to stop me, mother?”_

_mother?_

And John thinks of the Aurora, of the Captain’s final cryptic words, the mention of the Merged, the unfinished sentence: _my own son was one of_

Ephesia says:  _“Our laws exist for a reason, my child.”_

 _a child_  
_(rocked to sleep)_  
_sleeping so soundly;_

Is this their first reunion since the Long Siege, ten thousand Terran years ago?

_“Let go.”_

_“I cannot. This threat came to the City once, it will come again, and who will protect Her if not us? If not I?”_  And there is unbridled anger and disappointment in Icarus’ lack of smile.  _“Will you betray us by giving us over to the Others? You know the punishment. I am preserving the legacy of our people!”_

Ephesia nods.  _“The seeds have been sown, and the soil drenched in water. The efforts will not be forgotten. It is time to go, child.”_

And John looks at them, a steel cord still wrapped around his throat making it impossible to flee but it’s obvious now, Ephesia’s relation to Icarus, but why,  **why**  – he looks like the reflection of a mirror; eyes which are his own. The thought is caught.  _“I think you know the answer,”_  Icarus remarks. Turns back to Ephesia.

_“The Others cannot undue the past.”_

_“No, but if you do not step back They will intervene.”_  A warning.  _“They will stop you.”_

Icarus snorts. _“Whenever have They not twisted the rules to fit their whims? I know you fear we will become like the Ori, but I will not stand down.”_

He’s merely the audience to a much grander play, and John can’t find the words to split the silence. The two Ancients face each other off, and Ephesia gestures at the empty Gate. It activates without turning, a wormhole forming. 

(like the time in the Chair, when he’s laid dying   
heartbeats fading and the image of Chaya Sar   
had appeared before him, opening the event horizon   
and he’d fought it fought with all of his being, his soul)

It’s difficult to concentrate, because the revelation – he doesn’t want to believe it – not worded explicitly but he looks at Icarus, the likeness, and shivers, this is far too haunting. Too haunting. _It can’t be real._ Another virtual reality painted to fool them all, but this time no one comes to shut down the program.

_“Icarus.”_

Ephesia – and another shape, a whisper at her side: it might be her Dæmon, because in mind they are One Being – they reach the trembling event horizon.

 _“If you resist, the Others will destroy you, and you would never witness the fruits of your labor,”_  she says. And the grief in her emerald eyes is genuine.  _“And you shall be of the Ori in Their eyes by proclaiming this right to interfere. Come, child. The City is protected.”_

_it is time to go_

“Wait,” John manages, an inch of control of his own voice, “wait, what does it all …”

_mean?_

_what the hell does it all_

_“Our conversation, yes,”_  Ephesia nods.  _“The Merged. Atlantis will tell you what you need to know.”_

If, if Icarus is one of these … then he could leave. Go to Terra, leave the City behind; or couldn’t he? would that cause his death? was this why he stayed, creating the fake hologram, a Chamber of Secrets? is that why – is that why?

 _“I can leave,”_  Icarus says, quietly.  _“Painful, but possible. I did leave, ten thousand Terran years ago. You may do the same, if you wish. It was on Terra I reached Ascension. And it was to Terra I returned, over thirty-six of your years ago.”_

 _ice there is ice in his veins at this revelation_ **he**   **doesn’t want it to be true**

It’s time for them to go, and Ephesia offers her hand, and Icarus says:  _I made a promise. The Last City must remain._ Then he crosses the distance, to join the Ancient woman by the blooming Gate.

And then John is falling. Icarus’ disappearance is so swift it’s almost painful, the two Ancients fleeing in haste through the Stargate and then it all disappears. The sky returns: time is ticking, and he is in the Gate Room, the real one, the real one, the real one;

It’s so dark still, the night lying thick around the City and everything is offline: everything is too too quiet:

* * *

He comes to in the Control Room, a hand armed and raised, the barrels of weapons pointed at his face and chest. It’s quiet, far too quiet, and every nerve feels one fire, and he struggles to breathe; but he can; Icarus is gone.

_[John?]_

His Dæmon can finally finally move. And so can Caldwell, whose face clears, and the light is gone now. Crumbled on the ground. He looks at them all as if he wants to weep, aware of what he’s done, of what someone else has made him do.

The taser clatters to the floor, sliding limply from John’s shocked hands.

He never had to use it;

_at least they never had to use it;_

And John closes his eyes briefly, as if expecting another attack. It doesn’t come.

* * *

_This has been the most fucked up day._


	23. now we are free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _today, the Raven doesn’t fly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xxiii.**

# now we are free

_today, the Raven doesn’t fly._

* * *

Carson examines them the old-fashioned way without scanners or X-rays, though he has a lifesigns detector still working in his hand. The City remains dark and quiet as dawn nears toward breaking; the  _potentiae_  haven’t been reconnected out of concern that whatever the Goa’uld did it could still be in effect. The scientists are trying to look at it with limited tools, no extra power to their computers and what if the Core overloads the moment they turn it back on? It cannot be risked.

John just lies there and breathes. Takes no offense that he’s been cuffed to the bed because after all this crap, the last thing anyone needs is for him to break free  _again._  He doesn’t think he’ll sleep safely and relaxed for a whole other week, a month, without nightmares of waking up in the wrong places without memory without control of his own flesh.

The City’s silence is so sharp it’s painful, he almost wants to weep at this sudden loss. He’s heard Her singing since he was a child, and never has She completely  _silenced_  like this;

Finally Carson declares Caldwell Goa’uld-free and there is no sign of anything ever inhabiting John’s body, except the bruises on his shoulder blades and around his wrists, and this strange empty lingering feeling of  _wrongness._  The knowledge that he was so vulnerably exposed and nearly killed a whole lot of people. Out of his own control. Volition not mattering. The isolation room is very quiet even if the doors remain open, physically forced apart to allow access. People have lit candles in the dark. The movement of flashlights. Once the sun is up navigation will be a little easier; after all that’s happened, few people are asleep.

He glimpses Weir up above in the observation room overlooking the isolation chamber, and his team with her. Rodney, hovering worriedly. Meredith. He tries to reach out. Their Bond is nothing painful. It’s a comfort which he sorely needs, and he exhales, relaxing a bit as he receives a response, careful:  _Hey._  Emotions rather than words. Just making sure that they’re both okay.

(they aren’t really  
but they may be, in time

in time)

* * *

It takes another four hours before power comes back on.

There is no overload; there was a lock-out code, placed there by the Goa’uld, just in case. A password. But Caldwell retained some vague memories from his time as a host – including the combination of Ancient numbers, relayed them, and now they are safe. It’s over. It’s finally over.

Reports begin to be written, and John remains in isolation for a day and a night before Carson is happy to let him go. There is no sign of interference anymore. He can’t sleep, though Atlantis is returned to him, and She’s singing like She’s always used to, soothingly;

Once power’s back online, they call the Aurora. Major Lorne has been trying to hail them, having missed the last check-up. The Daedalus was meant to lift off five hours ago, supplies on their way. Well, that’s not going to happen for some time.

Eventually, Carson releases him with orders to rest. Lets him go to his quarters. John takes a long, hot shower and tries to forget what’s occurred, at least for a little, at least for a little while. Tries to scrub the sensations off of his skin as if that would cleanse his body wholly, as if it’d drive away the ghost and make then unreal.

(It’s been such a fucked up day.)

It’s over.

The City is back to normal, Her voice the same as it should be.

It’s over.

He goes to his quarters and nearly shuts himself in, scared of what he might do if anyone got too close. And he asks Her in the darkness:  _Tell me about the Merged._

* * *

Rodney knocks on the doorframe and enters without waiting for a reply. John doesn’t stop him. Shy tilts their head to witness the approach, aware though John doesn’t make a move. Is sitting on the bed leafing through a magazine he’s borrowed from the Library, an old edition of The National Geographic and he looks at the words without reading, without seeing them. The images all float together to form faces he doesn’t want to recall.

He’s spoken with the City; the safeguards previously preventing Her from revealing anything about the Merged have been lifted, and She had told him about the construction of the Cityships, millions of years ago; about how, in their quest for Ascension and knowledge and truth, the Ancients had begun to realize they could make their Cities stronger, more powerful. More than merely writing an Artificial Intelligence, innumerable lines of code. And Ascension means non-interference and leaving all else behind, leaving the stars and the planes of existence of nuclei and some hadn’t been able to let go. Some had chosen not just to Merge with their Dæmons and become One Being but to join the Cityship’s core itself, and this is the case of all Cities:

Atlantis is the Last City standing. Once one of a hundred, of a thousand;

And with Atlantis Merged a handful of Ancients, their sense of self lost over the cause of millennia of struggle and war, they lost their memory and became One Singular Voice but it does explain why the City is sometimes so aware yet cryptic, instilling a sense of knowledge and empathy, this sense of being truly alive. Conflicting emotions sometimes rising.

Some of the Merged left offspring behind; not many - a few. Most chose to focus on Ascension, no time for anything else - but some did, and those offspring, they could hear the Cities sing; Those Who Listen. A handful, precious perilous bloodlines and most of them were wiped out during the Long War with the Wraith.

One of the Merged was named Aeliana. But before she ever Ascended, she had a daughter; and her bloodline was carried on –

it was carried on –

John closes his eyes, no, no doesn’t want to confront it yet (if ever) isn’t ready for the truth –

“Hey. Anybody home?” Rodney takes a step closer: Meredith crawls between his feet and leaps to settle on the foot of the bed, giving John and the Raven a most hard, concerned look, clearly about to disbelieve any notions of them being all right. Close enough for John to feel the body heat. “We’re dialing Earth in forty-five minutes and we’ve got to eat first.”

“Should probably be there.” Folds the magazine and puts it aside. Shit, he doesn’t want to face General Landry or the IOA or whoever else. When they find out what’s happened, that there wasn’t just a Goa’uld but two possessions taking place - if he’s lucky, there might be suspicion and rebuke, concerns for safety. Because the Goa’uld, they can be scanned for, security tightened up, the creatures can be physically be detected and torn away but an Ascended being, that’s a whole other matter. And they don’t know why Icarus chose him, and John isn’t sure if he wants to divulge the truth; it would make things  _worse;_

“Yes.” A breath. “Look, none of this was your fault - you know that, right? Of course you don’t, stupid question, you always blame yourself for everything like some martyr. It’s an awful habit. Got to break it because one of these days it’ll end badly.”

“ _I_  found the hologram, Rodney.  _I_  activated it. I –”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter. Icarus was hanging around anyway, wasn’t he? It might have been a trigger; it might not. For all we know, Caldwell arriving was the trigger. And, you know, it explains a whole lot. During the return flight he was … he was cold, distant. I mean, I’m not the best judge of people’s inner lives,” Rodney stumbles over the sentence, “and Caldwell never liked me very much, probably, but, something was up. I’ve never known a Dæmon to be that silent and still.”

The Goa’uld didn’t get rid of it for one simple reason: to keep up the illusion. If the plan had succeeded, if Atlantis had imploded, the Goa’uld might have dumped the whole crew and taken the Daedalus back to Terra, and it would have killed Caldwell’s Dæmon mid-flight. Destroyed the final remnants of the man and his soul, leaving nothing to be scavenged. Made Caldwell a perfect host, full of intel about the SGC.

“He’s going to need some serious counseling,” Rodney goes on. Doesn’t know how to silence. “I can’t even … can’t even imagine that. Caldwell’s speaking with Elizabeth now, but I heard him mention when it happened. Two and a half months ago. Two  _months!_  Before the Daedalus left, he was taken by the Trust …”

Vague recognition from old SG-reports. “Isn’t that the rogue NID operative?”

“Yeah. They implanted the snake when he was in New Orleans to visit his wife before liftoff. That Goa’uld was a damned good actor, probably had a ton of intel beforehand. This was masterfully planned. Our guess is that some Trust agents got their hands on our earliest databursts.”

“And all about the Wraith …” John puts aside the magazine. “That’s why they wanted to destroy the City, to make sure the Wraith didn’t get to Terra.” Ass-backward reasoning and yet it makes sense. The System Lords are slowly dying, thanks to the work of the SGC and its allies; they can’t spare a war on two fronts. “Didn’t want another enemy.”

“Yeah.” A sigh. “Come on, let’s go eat,” Rodney says, impatiently. “They’re serving blue Jell-O for deserts.”

“You go. I’m not really feeling it.”

But Rodney won’t take no for an answer, not this time. “Contact with Earth, remember. Dialing in, oh, forty minutes, and we want to be there and for that we need to be clearheaded and I for one don’t fancy going into hypoglycemic shock.”

A challenging glare. “Do we really want to?”

“Well, no.” The Canadian harrumphs. “Look, Elizabeth will handle the talking. But you need to be there on your feet to assure them that you’re, well, Ancient-free –”

“I …” And he pauses, suddenly wants to speak, wants to stand and take Rodney’s hands and tell him:  _I think I know who Icarus is, and if it’s true then I’m not Ancient-free by a long shot, and I think I know; I_   **know**

Noise freezes in his throat.

Rodney sees the shadow passing his face. “John?”

Exhale. He shakes his head. Nothing. Not yet, not yet. “All right, let’s go eat.”

* * *

Nothing tastes more than blankness and salt, and John stirs the food, doesn’t touch it. Too tired. Too  _drained._  Aware of the handful of nervous glances, from people who are still new to the City; and the concerned burn from Teyla and Kanaan, from Ford and Adria, from Rodney and Meredith. The air is different from what it should be like, and when the klaxon sounds announcing that a wormhole is being established, John is glad to be called away. 

Today, the Raven doesn’t fly. Shy keeps close, as close as their bodies will allow. Fearing separation more than anything.

The SGC responds to the alarm rapidly. Especially when Elizabeth says: “Approximately seven hours ago, we narrowly escaped the City’s destruction at the hands of the Goa’uld. We lost power for a time, which is why we couldn’t contact Earth.”

General Landry – clad simply and casually in a leather jacket as if he’s been pulled from a day off – immediately gathers his closest, the important brass, an IOA representative. A red phone call. A message to be sent to Homeworld Security at the Pentagon. The Trust are still at large at Terra, in Avalon as a whole, and they may have more resources at their disposal than earlier anticipated. They managed to target Colonel Caldwell. That should never have been allowed - never been possible - to happen.

Soon enough, General O’Neill is there, and Colonels Mitchell and Carter, and Dr Jackson – they want to know all about the Goa’uld there is, if they’re moving; the Prometheus, in orbit around Earth, managed to beam them there in a matter of minutes. They gather around the conference table in Cheyenne; the Lanteans stand before the wide screens in the Control Room. The image is stable and unflickering and full of color as General O’Neill angrily demands to know how the hell this could happen.

Caldwell, shaken, is still in the infirmary. Checked upon by Beckett and his team, but not cuffed. Have to make sure that Icarus’ removal of the Snake didn’t cause any damage.

“We’re still working on that,” Elizabeth answers the General. “From what Caldwell can remember, he was attacked on his way to New Orleans seventy-five days ago Earth-time by at least three people working for the Trust. After that, his memory is blurry. We know that the Goa’uld attempted to hack into the City’s primary systems and alter the settings concerned with the ZPMs –”

“Actually, to remove the failsafes from the Core,” Rodney interrupts loudly. “The initial virus was meant as a distraction, no doubt, so that we wouldn’t notice the changes until it was too late.”

The humans on the other side nod; well, Carter does. The others need the details explained to understand what that means.  _“That sounds bad,”_  Colonel Mitchell says.

“Without the failsafes, the ZedPMs would overload – catastrophically, and we’re talking  _extremely_  catastrophically – wiping out not just the City but the entire planet, New Latnea’s whole system – if not more. We’re talking the power of two extremely powerful sources which tap directly into the vacuum energy of subspace. It’d make a nova look like a lightbulb by comparison.”

John stands in the background with his team. Unyielding support, for which he’s eternally grateful. In a way he’s still wondering how he’s even standing up. Rodney’s side is pressed against his own, comfortingly. Can’t make himself speak.

_“And how did you manage to stop this?”_

“We found evidence of an Ancient’s presence in the City.”

 _“What?”_  exclaims Dr Jackson.  _“Who_ – _”_

“His name is – or was – Icarus. He … intervened before the Goa’uld could complete their plan, by physically disconnecting the ZPMs,” Elizabeth explains, carefully, carefully.

Trying to save our skins, John understands on a distant level. Another protective mood. Because if she tells them outright, too outright, that Icarus took control of his body (and he needs to apologize to all the marines he threw around like puppets) … Many of the people back at the SGC are already wary enough of him, because of Sumner, because of the Bond he claims to have with the City preventing him from returning to Terra, because of his discipline issues. This is another dark mark to add to his record.

But General Landry catches onto the discrepancies.  _“So this Ancient has been in the City this whole time?”_  The unasked:  _why hadn’t he been noticed earlier?_

“We believe so, yes. He disguised himself as a hologram in order to hide from the Other Ascended beings.”

 _“Where is he now?”_  Jackson asks, eagerly; wants this chance to speak in person with a real Ancient;

John finds his voice. “He’s Ascended – he took off so the Others wouldn’t get to him.” Or joined them, possibly, under a leash. No matter which way. Icarus is probably (hopefully) gone for a long, long time.

 _“Colonel Sheppard,”_  O’Neill says,  _“how was the Goa’uld subdued? If there’s a Snake in Caldwell …”_

“Not anymore, sir,” he says, receiving a nod from Weir to go on. “Icarus removed it, and Colonel Caldwell is alive and … not quite well yet, but alive.”

“We are still trying find out exactly what events led up to this and all the details,” Elizabeth adds. Her arms are crossed, a tense pose. Her Dæmon is pacing. “What’s important right now is to find the Trust on Earth who have a lot of intel on Atlantis. Perhaps Colonel Caldwell will eventually remember more, but at the moment he is not in a state to be questioned. He’s in our infirmary right now with Dr Beckett, who has positively reported that every trace of the Goa’uld is gone.”

Conflict. Dr Jackson’s gears are clearly turning rapidly.  _“The Ancient, Icarus, do we know more about him? His name is exactly the same as_ – _”_

“The Greek myth, yes, yes, we know,” Rodney says, impatiently. Sharply. And John feels gratitude and relief that the others want to finish this conversation just as rapidly as he.

Feels a sudden surge and wants to be able to grip Rodney’s hand, hold onto it, a physical anchor. Wishes that he was allowed to break down, for just a little moment, to  _show;_

Teyla remarks: “I am not familiar with this myth of which you speak, nor have I heard this name in any legends of my people about the Ancestors.”

 _“Icarus, son of the engineer Daedalus,_ ” Jackson says, voice a sprint as usual:  _“According to one reincarnation of the myth he and his father fashioned a pair of wax wings for themselves, but Icarus flew too close to the sun, an euphemism for hubris, and this caused his wings to melt. He fell into the ocean and drowned.”_

Pride. Drowning. There’s a certain kind of symbolism which is close enough, but also all wrong. The Ancient building himself a dais for them to find; though the part of the wings was partially true. His Dæmon’s Shape was able to fly - and John can still retain the imprint of that memory, a name,  _Sau_ – 

“His Dæmon was named after the Lantean sun,” he says suddenly, and Jackson appears delighted, taking notes. Not asking just how how how John knows this. He doesn’t mention that Icarus’ mother was named Ephesia; and her Dæmon, that must’ve been Daedalus.

The report will spell it out all too clearly, and then the IOA will flip, for certain. Demand interrogations.

General Landry clears his throat.  _“The Goa’uld has been neutralized, then. Do we know if this Ancient will be a safety issue?”_

“He won’t be, sir,” John answers. “The Others know what he did, and they won’t let him interfere anymore.”

Ephesia won’t let it happen.

Somewhat calmed by these words (but not fully), the General nods. O’Neill straightens in his chair, starts to stand up. Crisp dress blues;

_“All right. Time to get to work and find these rogue agents, then.”_

* * *

John hasn’t finished his report. Can’t put it to words:  _he was in my head, controlled my body my flesh my muscle and bone_   **I**   **couldn’t do anything**

And he wonders if, if this was how he felt: helplessly lost in himself, but he could hear Icarus and Icarus wanted the best for Atlantis, like a promise of safety, even if he was willing to sacrifice a human life for it. Then how’s Caldwell feeling? trapped and the Goa’uld didn’t want to save him or anyone, the Goa’uld wanted to  _destroy_  –

 _(couldn’t do anything)_  

* * *

After the brief, John can’t bring himself to sit down and write that report. Later. He’ll do it later. Weir will let them know anyhow, and then the IOA will be frenzied, and General Landry worried about a security breach. An Ancient – not as sweetly benevolent and selfless as they’d hoped – had taken control of the CO, could have created a cascade of disasters of failure of death, and John remembers the echo of power in his hands, the Ascended being curled around his spine like strangulation and he nearly killed his own marines, all to save the City.

All to save the City.

The Colonel is sitting on a bed in the infirmary, and would probably have argued with the docs – John knows the streak of stubbornness, of a commander not wanting to show weakness or pain – but now he is quiet, and his Dæmon rests its head in his lap, eyes closed, and if they have been weeping no one mentions it. John approaches carefully, suddenly at loss at what to say.

Isn’t sure what words could be used to cover such a fucked up day.

“Colonel.”

“Colonel.”

They don’t salute, or exchange anything else worthy noting. The machinery blinking and beeping in the background, the steady heartbeats; the docs have gone for a moment, and if Dr Heightmeyer has been here, Caldwell doesn’t mention it.

Caldwell was there to see it occur, the bright light, Icarus Ascending.

Then he says: “Thank you.”

And John says: “It wasn’t me, Colonel.”

The Colonel considers, hand cradled around the side of his Dæmon. So close to losing her completely. “He’s not here to thank. And I saw the intent – he meant to kill us.”

Something in John’s throat tightens. “Yes, sir. He did.”  _For the City._  All for the City; the City is everything everything everything

But he didn’t. Had listened to the pleads and John had struggled fought so hard because he has seen enough people die, he didn’t want another man’s blood on his hands, not like this, so coldly and calculated and Caldwell wasn’t the Goa’uld. Not willingly.

The Daedalus has only just arrived, and the tour is scheduled to last for at least another two months until the next milk run. Caldwell can’t be brought home to Terra unless by the Gate, and they have no other ship to send. He’d be cut off. He could do it, leave his second-in-command to fly the Daedalus. Finish this. Go home to his wife. No one would stop him. Elizabeth has already offered, John knows, but the Colonel hasn’t given an answer yet.

 _Didn’t know he was married,_  he thinks suddenly; a lot he doesn’t know. Because Caldwell, for all intents and purposes, is an outsider, a stranger who came to infiltrate the City and its tight bonds of friendship and alliance, and reaching out to accept help has been hard on all of them. That’s what war does to you. It makes you wary. Caldwell is an alien with a whole other life back on Terra, and he hasn’t yet seen a Wraith up close. He’s never been witness to a Feeding or a Culling, lives swept away like dust; he hasn’t seen it. but he’s been through this, far longer than John did, two whole terrible months, and this is a common ground. Worst kind of common ground.

Didn’t know he was married. Does Caldwell have other family? kids? grandkids? siblings, old friends, unaware of the Stargate and the Daedalus and what exactly he leaves for months at a time to do?

To whom does he send his letters?

At least John gets to see Rodney every day, and they needn’t keep secrets from each other because of nondisclosure agreements.

 _Instead we can’t ever hold hands in public,_  he thinks, wryly; like a pay-off. Gain this, lose that.

“Are you going to stick around, sir?” he asks at last, and acts as if the Colonel’s hands aren’t the least bit unsteady as they cradle the Dæmon in his lap, this last only solid link to his true self, the scars right under the skin, too close too close;

“There’s no sense in turning back yet. I assume General Landry has been notified.” Sheer strength of will.

“Yes, sir.” And abrupt respect for this man creeps up on him and he’s got the urge to salute. To somehow show that Caldwell’s still himself and human, despite what’s happened. They’re strangers, but the gap is closing. John knows enough now to be certain that the next time someone utters the word  _Goa’uld_  it will trigger nightmares, and Caldwell won’t be free from that for a long, long time. There is no instant cure. “Dr Weir’s waiting for your report.”

“She’ll have it in the morning, Colonel,” Caldwell says, and John knows a dismissal when he hears it. He nods, takes his leave.

No, Caldwell is probably not going to sleep well tonight. End up sedated by the docs, perhaps, but he’ll fight it.

The lack of control –

He’ll fight it.

* * *

Within the next hour he searches the City and finds AR-4 in the heart of the Citadel, grouped together around a game of cards. Kemp is quieter than unusual, and DeSalle’s face shadowed. A painful bruise is growing on MacGrimmon’s cheek, and John winces at the sight. He can’t recall the exact moment or the sensation, but he too bears the marks. Icarus didn’t bother to heal his flesh. 

At the sight of him, the team turn, as one, slightly wary, the merest hint but it fades. John can’t blame them. He’d be twitchy too if he’s had to face down his CO like this, and then hear it was an alien taking over the show;

“At ease,” he says when they move to stand.

Gladys lowers her deck of cards. “Sorry about earlier,” she says, referencing the incident with the taser.

“No need, LC. If you hadn’t done that, I might never have snapped out of it.” Left unsaid:  _and Atlantis might have been in the chaotic grip of an Ancient, and Caldwell could be dead._

“Told you,” mutters Kemp on his breath, nudging his teammate gently with an elbow.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” John says. He attacked his own marines, and there is no excuse for that;

But MacGrimmon smiles. “Honestly, sir, it was just one of those days. Dr McKay explained everything about the Ancient guy.”

“Though he got our names all wrong, didn’t he,  _MacGyver,_ ” Kemp adds with a chuckle. And he looks at John: “I’m just wondering why someone from AR-1 always is at the heart of it when shit like this goes down.”

And John nearly laughs, relieved. “Trust me, Lieutenant: it’s not on purpose.”

* * *

John can’t sleep.

He may have the word, the promise of no return and he saw them vanish, the fading lights. But Icarus’ words linger and his face, his too familiar face and Ephesia’s calming smile, and John throws the covers off. Warm and sweaty as if by nightmares he can’t recall. He paces, for a while. Not enough. 

Not enough.

His bare feet carry him out, through the empty dark still corridors. The City is murmuring the lullaby of night, the moons circling overhead. Considers finding a balcony and seek flight, but can’t bear the thought of distance, not now, this freedom lies elsewhere. The Raven on his shoulder he walks downward instead, through the lower levels of the Inner City until he finds a transporter to carry them to the North Pier. There, on the edge, hidden: the lab.

(maybe there are more, hidden away. there was a tantalizing him, a whisper of remembrance from Icarus mind as it had shared space with his own: of a City full of secrets)

It’s empty, too, and dark. The dais is the same. He steps toward it. Isn’t sure why, compelled. But when he activates the console, there is no hologram of a man and his Dæmon, no manifest. The lights refuse to come on. There is one single file, instead, and this one appears to be real;

 


	24. the flight of icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ten thousand years is a long time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xxiv**

# the flight of icarus

_ten thousand years is a long time._

* * *

**Atlantis · Lantea · Pegasus**  
**ten thousand Terran years ago**

* * *

 _The City has begun to be emptied. Our people are leaving for Terra, and we must be among the Evacuees;  
the Council will not accept stragglers - they do not perceive any hope in lingering.  
They do not trust us. They will search for us if we do not join them._  
_This Last Siege cannot be won, but this final place of our legacy shall be rediscovered. Of this we have proof, and  
we shall see it done. Under the sea, hidden from the Enemy, we shall protect Her while awaiting the Descendants.  
We will be remembered, and we shall one day return.  
__We are not dead._

(Icarus’ message  
in its entirety)

* * *

Nothing glows in the dark.

At this depth, the pressure is encompassing, but the shield holds well. The vessel crawls along the seafloor slowly, carefully, carefully. 

The City is preparing to be emptied, the Council a mass of movement, deliberation; the debate has ended; it is time to go. His mother’s brother has taken the Terran woman to a secret place for her to hide, to show her how to extend her lifespan a hundred times its original length. A futile mission, he knows, and he knows not if Ianus has told her this, that her body will grow old and wither nonetheless, and she may never exit the stasis chamber capable of walking or speaking or even thinking again. Ten thousand years is a long time, and she will be alone. Both she and City will be alone, for neither of them can hear each other; neither of them can speak the other’s tongue.

Ten thousand years is a long time.

It has been less than five days since the modified  _portam nava_  caved in from the fire from the Enemy and plunged into the ocean, right outside the City’s shields. Too sudden the onslaught, too bright. The three souls within did not know when or where they were, who the Enemy was, their name; and that tells them one thing. The Enemy never reaches beyond Pegasus, does not come to Avalon.

Terra will be safe, and the Descendants will not know the Enemy’s terror for a long, long time.

He takes care to remain hidden from the sensors. An easy thing to beg of Her; he has often felt like a Favorite Son, for the bloodlines of the Merged are so few, not many of them left behind offspring before they disappeared. And few children are being born, because while they do not wish for their legacy to die, they do not want to bring more life into this shadow, the Ever-Night. Icarus had no other child to play with as he grew, only holograms, and Her voice, a constant soothing comfort full of promise. He will now return these promises, one last time.

(when he steps through the Porta into uncertainty, and Her voice fades, the pain will grip him: he knows, is scared of it; it will occur, and he must endure. he must endure)

When they had detected the vessel, buried under water and rock and sand, still warm from weapons’ fire, five lifesigns had glowed within: and the seconds passed quickly, and two, three had winked out within the minute, before a rescue vessel could be sent. They had not bothered to move the dead. There is nowhere to bury them. Better let the ocean take them. But Icarus has a promise to fulfil, and he is also thrumming with curiosity. For the Terran woman’s words had sparked something within him, a sudden certainty which he needs to confirm before the Evacuation is complete.

There: a growing silhouette. He flicks on the forward spotlight, and a number of fish scuttle away, startled and afraid, not yet intelligent enough to understand the source and its harmlessness. The vessel is half upturned, the windshield cracked but intact enough; the shield had held, briefly, raised prompted by the pilot’s panic and confusion and pain, the system connected to his blood. For that is how it must be, and Icarus means to find out; the Council, for their wisdom and grace, are sometimes so utterly unsighted. They had not understood the importance of this, the fact that at least one of these Terrans was able to operate Lantean technology. 

The hatch is covered in debris, unable to be forced open. To free the Terran woman, unconscious but alive and clinging to her Anima, Ianus had modified the innards of a transporter, managing to lock onto the two flickering lifesigns in a stroke of brilliance; inspired, it would seem, by their old allies of Ida. Icarus has always looked up to him, and helped him create the device; now he has taken it with him, and he lets the  _portam nava_  hover next to the downed vessel, activating the circuits with a thought.

In the darkness, a sudden glow: it fills the compartment. No longer empty. Icarus and Sau leave the controls, turning to have their first look:

The Terran woman had cried out their names as she woke from unconsciousness, her wounds healed. She had asked:  _where are they? are they all right?_

There are two men and one Anima. The first, a thin one, with a ragged expression, wild hair, and pieces of broken glass embedded in his pale skin, clings to the Anima. Its Shape is alien, foreign, and utterly irrelevant. It is not why Icarus has come. The man’s clothing is reminiscent of that of the woman, the same gray hue of jacket, but he is unarmed, not a warrior of any kind. There is no memory in his face, only a glimpse of terror, of a haze of incomprehension before the seconds took him away. Icarus turns him and the Anima aside. They are not why he is here.

The second man is familiar. Though body broken by the violent crash, his face is intact, and there is a shadow of himself there: older, worn. His hands hold the hint of scars and future troubles in a civilization not yet born, and Icarus examines those hands, places the  _sensorem_  in them curiously and the screen blinks momentarily as if recognizing something in there, but the blood is still and heart not beating, and the machine ceases to work until Icarus picks it up again. But this tells him something. He needs to find out more.

 _There is not much time,_  Sau reminds him; 

The Council will begin searching for stragglers, and he will no doubt be suspected for trying to do something foolish, something forbidden, all to hinder the others. They do not trust him, as they do not trust Ianus, as they did not trust his mother Ephesia. Too willful and not of the Council’s own single mind. They trust even Moros, whose concerns about the Ori have long been loudly voiced, more than they trust Ianus and those of his blood.

Oh, the irony. If they could just  _see_  – but the Council refuses to.

One sample is enough. They will bring enough technology to Terra to survive, to rebuild their civilization. This is the goal, at least. He stores the sample securely, tucks it away: a secret. It will tell him what needs to be done, and from the account of Dr Elizabeth Weir, he already knows  _when._

He stands, and looks upon the man once more: there is no Anima, and this might be another sign of truth, because no human has yet come close enough to Ascension as to have become One, not yet; and right here before his eyes lies the  **truth**  of the Descendants, and the Council will not see. Fools! Their self-importance knows no bounds.

They have also been too busy with dreams of Ascension to spare more than fleeting thoughts for the life which their own ancestors seeded. They do not care for the humans of these stars. They have the means to create them anew; again, and again, and again, as many times as they please - if this galaxy is lost, there are more. Always more. Limitlessly. And they preach non-interference, the Highest Law, and Icarus knows that this shall be his greatest obstacle. The Others will try to stop him, the day he joins their ranks. But he has studied the board, he knows the rules. Cheating – that is but an afterthought, and he is prepared.

Time to go. He reverses the process, and with a flash of bright intensity, the compartment is emptied. Leaving the bodies to be taken by the eons and the sea; when the Descendants return, nothing will be left but the derelict shell of the  _portam nava_ , if they ever manage to find it outside of the City shields. Here they shall sleep.

Yes, here they shall sleep, as the City shall sleep;

 _It is time to go,_  he says to Sau, gripping the controls.

The ship rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ancient translations :**  
>  **sensorem** lifesigns detector


	25. bloodlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _such a final, simple statement._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xxv.**

# bloodlines

_such a final, simple statement._

* * *

**Atlantis · New Lantea · Pegasus**  
**103 days after the Uprising**

* * *

The Raven is flying in graceful arches.

(the leap of faith: it hadn’t burned or hurt to lift their wings and seize the sky. It had been like breathing, completely necessary and unstoppable a force)

They know the air and the currents and the gleaming towers so well, that they don’t need perfect night vision to navigate; the stars above are enough, the sky has started to become familiar. New Lantea’s magnetic field is also a thing of comfort, something to rely on, sensed at the fringes of their shared consciousness. They’re flying, and John is sitting relaxed palms up a bottle in his lap and his eyes closed, listening, listening;

It could have been half an hour or three, he’s not sure, has let go of time for a little while. The sky is clear and free and something which he knows, perhaps the only thing he truly knows. A frightening thought.

The constellations are becoming familiar.

“Figured that you’d be here.”

He opens his eyes a sliver, and Rodney and Meredith are standing under the shadow of a lamp. The City have shut them off in this area to make it easier to see the stars, glimmering above.

“The lifesign circling the City is a pretty big giveaway,” the astrophysicist goes on, and sits down next to him with some struggle, a mutter of lacking grace. The silence isn’t awkward or encompassing. John offers him a bottle, and Rodney accepts after a moment of scrutinizing - thinking: Not proper Canadian stuff but it’ll do.

The stars are beautiful. For a while, neither of them speak. It’s not necessary.

The Raven completes another ellipse around the Central Tower, mimicking peace.

“When we were in the Gate Room, confronting the Goa’uld … Ephesia – the Captain from the Aurora – she was there,” John says then, softly. “She’s the one who made Icarus leave.”

“Didn’t she Asc… oh,  _oh._ ” Comprehension dawning. “When? I mean, we didn’t notice anything like that. Apart from the fact that a lot of weird stuff was happening and the City going haywire and you were literally  _pulling a Goa’uld_  from Caldwell’s head.”

A shudder.

“No, she was in my mind, like Icarus. Or maybe we were on some other plane of existence or however else Ascended actually operate, and – well, it was a bit like time slowed down, or stopped around us, or something. However that’s possible but, relativity. I don’t know. She’d come to warn Icarus before the Others could come and destroy him for interfering.”

Time had ceased to be.

“And by ‘destroy’ you mean ‘kill’? The Ancients certainly don’t do anything by halves.” A vivid shake of head.

“Yeah. And … well, I sort of understood, it was never said in so many words, but – I know you never saw that hologram, Rodney. But Icarus, he – he looked like me. And Ephesia, who incidentally is Icarus’ mother …”

“Oh, god, this is an Ancient soap opera,” Rodney groans.

John can’t bring himself to chuckle though he has the reflex to. Sobers. “They both told me a bit about how a Bond with the City works, and Atlantis filled in the rest. About the Merged. I.” A breath, two. “I went back to the hologram room. The manifests and all were gone, no sign of any hologram, but I found something else and this time it was a real file.”

Rodney blinks, confused. He hasn’t mentioned this before.

“It’s … it’s a sample of DNA.”

Digitally stored onto a small piece of fragile crystal and he’d pocketed it before the lights winked out. A final clue. At least Icarus wants to grant him some closure. 

“And … whose would that be, exactly?”

“Icarus’.”

For a moment neither of them speak. The waters clash against the Pier, and the moons shine softly, oh so softly like a dream. John takes another sip of the beer.

Eventually, Rodney scrubs at his forehead with a palm, frowning deeply. “Let me get this straight. Icarus is …”

“Yes. I … I think. I don’t know yet. For certain. But – I think he wants me to know.” 

“John, this is … this is  _huge._  I mean, if Icarus really is your ancestor, you’d be the first human we’d be able to tie to an actual Ancient person, with a name, a direct link to the ATA-gene and if he evacuated to Earth along with –”

“He Ascended and returned to Atlantis, but then he went back to Terra,” John interrupts, but not unkindly or sharply. Finds he has to speak the words: to breathe life into them: “In 1970.”

And Meredith and Rodney both silence, their four-way Bond thrumming with disbelief and concern and flooding with emotion namelessly and John feels a hand hovering over his wrist, worriedly, barely touching.

“ _The Empire Strikes Back_ ,” Rodney blurts suddenly.

And John laughs, hollowly. At the ironies of the world and, shit, he can’t process this. It’s just –  _shit_ , it’s almost too much. He has the ATA-gene, OK, he can handle that – a sliver of alien; and it’s given him the gift to speak with Atlantis; it has given him home. But  **this** …

And it means Patrick isn’t his father. Not by blood. But he’s still his Father. Raised him with his Mother and at least  _that_  part is still true.

Is that why? Did Patrick Sheppard always suspect? Did he see it?

And it is so obvious, now, in hindsight. Valerie Sheppard going to visit her parents in the French countryside in the shivering October winds of 1970. Married for not too long. Patrick and Dave came too, of course; his big brother a kid of two brief obnoxious years. He can picture it: has seen photographs as a fifteen-year-old of when his Mother’s hair was curly and brightly brown, she liked wearing checkered skirts and she’s smiling in those photos. And she loves Patrick, surely. Surely. And then Icarus – what would he have looked like? what illusion would he have worn? what name? does it even matter? Maybe he didn’t even take a solid form; maybe an Ascended being can create life. A summer fling; a marriage interrupted; then he’d gone, and Valerie hadn’t mentioned it and pretended that the child was Patrick Sheppard’s and all was well, because this was the seventies, how could she have told the truth and still lived an undisturbed life?

Moved on. Birthed a child with hazel eyes and shockingly dark hair even though there are no such traits in the rest of the family. Outlying factors. No Dæmon Emerging despite waiting waiting waiting; outlying factor. The odd sweet child who is too clever for his own good asks too many questions – outlying factors – isn’t really like his brother or father at all too bright no Dæmon no Dæmon  _no Dæmon_.

 _(she’s not afraid of you but_   **for**   _you,_  Pete had told him when he a child  
of was seven years old, in sickness)

Did they know?

Was that why they feared him? because this child was not his, not his to protect or love, to raise, to care for; and yet it  _was_  and this child had no Dæmon – it must have seemed like a curse; the Strangeling child.

 _I didn’t ask for this fucking mess. For this to be me. I just want to be normal, for once;_   **normal** _._

“I mean,” Rodney goes on, not overly careful but it’s a familiar thing and it helps: “with the whole  _I am you father_ -bit. Though he didn’t chop off your hand, so, kudos there I guess. Not that it is  _really_  because he’s still an asshole for taking control of your body, I mean, what’s asking for consent, huh? But, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. Kind of,” John says. Wants to scream and cry and be a child again, seek an embrace and be told that it’s a nightmare that will pass and that everything will be okay. “Except I’m not sure if Icarus is Darth Vader or still Anakin Skywalker.”

“Maybe …” Rodney says, pondering, pausing: “… maybe he’s neither, come think of it.”

“Who else would he be? And don’t say the Emperor. And we should probably stop with the references altogether.”

“Well, all right. Sure. Probably not.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel really confident and secure,” John says with a shudder, and Rodney grimaces. Meredith curls up between them, allowing John to rest a hand in her fur, warm and soft; and he closes his eyes, breathes. Rodney’s hand is a whisper atop of his own. Close. “What if it’s all true? If he’s really …” He could be. Why would he make up a lie like that? Enter his mind, without permission, to proclaim himself the protector of Atlantis. All dramatically.

Yeah. Very Vader.

(at least there was no mention of ruling the galaxy together, power-hungry megalomaniacs)

“Carson. He’s a geneticist. Let him analyze your DNA and compare it to the profile you found. And then you’ll have real hard evidence. Maybe Icarus is lying.”

The last sentence doesn’t sound certain or confident. a guess. and usually John trusts in Rodney’s guesses but he cannot trust this one.

Another shuddering breath. Maybe … yeah. Get the answers, for real, printed words on paper.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Another sip.

Rodney’s hand hovers over his thigh. Not certain if a touch would be welcome, if it’d comfort or merely be upsetting, startling. But John lets his hand become an anchor, clings to it. One of the few things he knows to be entirely  **real;**

 _It doesn’t change anything,_  Meredith murmurs across their Bond for all to hear;

John glances at them, unsure.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Rodney repeats, louder. Looks from the stars, to the waves, to the gentle lull of water. “You’re still …  _you._  You know that, don’t you? I’m not an expert on these things - but, we’ve known you for over a year and what makes you  _you,_  it’s not - DNA may play a part but the major things, that’s all human, that’s all …  **you**.”

“Very eloquent,” he points out but smiles, can’t stop it and finally some warmth returns.

A humph. "That’s not the point. The point is, you’re still John Sheppard and still a self-sacrificing moron (even if you’ve got a much higher IQ than anticipated) with far too little concern for your own well-being and, and the point is that it’s not altered your person. Only perception. I mean, do you honestly feel this is some kind of game-changer?”

And John has to shake his head. “I really hope not.”

“Then it’s not.”

Such a final, simple statement.

He can’t but point out, though: “Not everyone’s going to think so.”

“Well, then don’t tell them? or, should we? no, don’t want the IOA to demand blood samples or worse. It does explain a bit more about your Bond with the City,” Rodney says, a moment of thought. “The Merged, wasn’t that is? What’s the deal, exactly?”

John exhales, and begins to tell him, explain what Atlantis has showed him, all of the tales;

* * *

John has breakfast the next morning with his team and Dex. The food tastes divine. They talk and joke and banter, discuss the upcoming mission - if all goes well, they could go to P9X-313 as planned in a few days, as soon as Gate travel commences again. A mission that could mark the beginning of AR-1 being a five-member team. Enthusiastic comparisons of movie plots and explaining them to Teyla and Ronon, the latter confounded and bemused at the concept of television -  _so people watch this square box for fun? -_  and things, things slowly will begin to fall back to normal;

slowly

slowly

slowly

 

Patrick Sheppard, whoever he might actually be, was the man who raised him, he and Irene and Mother and Pete, and they – they were his parents. The ones that  _mattered._ They made sure he didn’t go cold at night, had a roof over his head, food to eat. They didn’t leave him in the woods to whither when they could have, could have tried to get rid of this Strangeling Dæmonless child who slept so soundly; they didn’t. They didn’t; and John finds a scrap of paper and settles on the balcony to his quarters and grabs a pencil, and he listens as the City sings;

With the next databurst to Earth, five days later, he has a special request to make of General Landry. Ends up speaking with Colonel Carter, who seems, on at least a threadbare level, understand; and she’s got friends in far higher places than he does, and she smiles and says: _I’ll see what I can do, Colonel._

 


	26. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John doesn’t remember that dream until years and years and years later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-09-03) I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, and/or commented on this fic!! You've truly kept me going and without you, this fic wouldn't exist. This series isn't over yet, though - I constantly get bombarded by plot bunnies, and there's so much left to explore and expand and explain. This isn't the end!  
> (2018-04-02) Chapter updated/revised.

**xxvi.**

# epilogue

* * *

_John doesn’t remember that dream  
until years and years and years later._

* * *

**Omaha, U.S. · Terra · Avalon**  
**June 23, 1978 (Terran time) · 9954 days before the Uprising**

* * *

The sweltering heat of June has most kids are running about playing in the park, with their parents on the sidewalks lazily browsing the newspapers without seeing the actual words, flicking through glossy magazines, seeking the shade under the trees or the air-conditioned safety of a lofty store; the children are laughing and shrieking and remaining unaware of the dangers of the world. Right here, right now, what is there to worry about other than, perhaps, if there’s a chance for ice-cream after lunch?

But he doesn’t join them.

Nine days ago, he turned eight years old.

The party had been nice enough, except for Aunt Betty – well, she’s not really named Betty, she has this long complicated French name no one mentions more than once past first introductions – and her hugs and kisses, and the constant head-patting from Uncle Benjamin and, honestly, John could do without both of those. He’s not used to it; they don’t visit very often – his parents don’t like it. He’s started understanding why, too; that Other People all have Dæmons and he’s Not Like Other People, and contact must be minimized. But birthdays are special exceptions.

He’d gotten this awesome build-from-scratch model of an airplane, a fighter, from Grandmère and he’d itched to get onto assembling it right away but he couldn’t because Mother and Pete kept insisting that was kind of rude. There were guests to attend, food to eat, people to be polite to. Meeting Cousin Jenny and her mom, Father’s sister, for the first time. _Bo-o-oring!_  he’d cried, wanted to start assemble the model plane right away, but Father told him to behave, and Irene hadn’t growled but almost and being pinned by those raw cold eyes always makes John shiver and go quiet.

Nine days ago, he woke up by midnight, wondering at first if he’d heard a scratching noise by the window. He’d padded out of bed and peered out, but the glass was pristine and outside it was dark, and no one was there. Maybe he could sneak down to the kitchen for some cookies and milk now that he’s already awake, and the night is dark enough now for both Mother and Father to be asleep.

There’d been a dream: usually, dreams slip away by morning and out of sight, but this one lingers close to his eyelids and he can taste it all the way through breakfast. It just refuses to go away. Next night, it had returned, reinforced; and John had dreamt about an ocean, impenetrable and dark but there hadn’t been any big fish or scary monsters, just the darkness and the steadily blinking lights from a bunch of buildings beneath it. Some kind of structure, he can’t say exactly what. And in those blinking lights, he’d heard a Voice singing.

Not like Mother sometimes hums on her breath while she’s cooking, though it had been as warm and nice. There hadn’t been any words, nothing he could write down, copy, and yet – John remembers it. But he’s just turned seven years old and he doesn’t linger on it, not for a long time.

Nine days later, he’s still dreaming about the Voice, continually and calmly and he wakes up remembering it.

It’s not a nightmare. It’s a lullaby. He wakes up refreshed and happy, and for a little while, briefly, he does not hear his Mother weeping quietly about his lack of Dæmon, or her constant waiting for it to Emerge; for a moment, he does not see his Father’s worryingly disapproving glances:  _Surely it’s time soon, the boy has turned eight years old_  (the Dæmon Must Emerge) …

On the tenth night, John dreams he’s flying. He’s flying toward a sky which doesn’t look exactly like Earth’s, except he hasn’t seen a lot of Earth so he supposes the sky looks different elsewhere, and then he doesn’t think so much about it at all because it’s a dream, and he doesn’t ask dreams questions. And in this sky there is a Voice and it’s rising from a silhouette, steeped in blue and silver, all goldenly glimmering spires and tall twisting towers;

* * *

_and in one of these dreams, just once_

_he sees himself - or at least it looks like himself, but the eyes are that of a Stranger, and the Dæmon by his side is unlike anything he has ever read about or observed. He speaks in a language which he has never heard, yet, he understands, he understands and it’s beautiful, a manifestation of stars themselves: he says,_  You won’t remember this dream, but there is a City waiting, 

you have to go there.

One day, soon, you must go there;

_and then he smiles, and becomes a sheen of brilliant while light and disappears._

* * *

John doesn’t remember that dream until years and years and years later.

* * *

When he wakes up, determination fills his blood. Like a Quest and he is the knight sent out from the castle: and he has been reading, systematically and at a fancy, books in the library ever since he learned the alphabet, and Dave and Nina have teased him for it, called him a nerd and silly and all kinds of things. And in the library, maybe, there could be a book about dreams, about Singing;

In the sweltering heat of June, while Father and Irene are at the office, and Mother and Pete in the kitchen, and Dave and Nina outside playing and not bothering him, John pulls book after book off the broad shelves and they land heavily stirring dust from the thick carpets. As they fall, he traces the titles, trying to find something anything a possibility that might be useful in this Quest For Answers – what’s a dream, really?

He’s already asked Mother, and she’s chuckled gently and said that’s the mind’s way of remembering things. He’d said it doesn’t make sense. Why would the mind want to remember bad things through nightmares? Especially monsters and creaking stairs and falling falling falling endlessly: he’s had those kinds of dreams, embarrassingly ending with tears, and he hadn’t a clue as to why. No, this is different, requiring another answer.

Because John doesn’t think Mother or Father or Dave or anybody have dreams like these, with a Voice lulling him through the air and wings upon his back, spreading two large shadows –

And Mother and Pete find him there, eventually, kneeling atop a messy pile of books and she doesn’t berate him or yell, and John clutches the books tightly to his chests as she just sighs, shakes her head. “Just make sure to pick up the mess before your father gets home.”

Father has never liked him reading all these books. 

* * *

(Years later, when he’s grown older and more scarred, John realizes that Patrick Sheppard was probably afraid of him: afraid of the son who never had a Dæmon and who always kept reading and asking those terribly difficult questions about things which he couldn’t answer.)

* * *

He can’t find the answers.

They are refusing to be found.

Maybe it’s a sign. He begins to believe: perhaps it’s his Dæmon whispering to him, We’re Here Somewhere, and they’re trying to show him where they are. They are resting atop of a tower hiding in the clouds Up There in the skies beyond the rain and the thunder, they’re waiting for him –

And time passes and when he’s nine years old, John becomes ever more certain in this. It becomes Fact: and he shares in his vision, and Father and Irene smile carefully, as if not uncertain as what to believe but indulge him nonetheless: “You want to be a pilot, son?”

It is the only dream he wants to make come true. 

* * *

He remembers that one dream years and years and years after he had it. Slow and sudden while the glowing chevrons of the Stargate are turning; there it is, where the wormhole is about to stabilize. The Gate Room is abuzz with people and movement and lights, and for a moment, a second, John doesn’t hear it, doesn’t see it. He sees a smile, instead, and hears promises being sung and now, now he understands and it doesn’t trouble or confuse him;

“John?” Teyla asks from his left; she’s fully geared up, frowning slightly in concern at his sudden silence; wordlessly asking, as teammates do, if anything is wrong. And John smiles, shakes his head; it’s fine. It’s all fine. His answer reassures her, and she and Kanaan wait by his side as the Stargate turns;

Rodney and Ford and Ronon come clambering down the stairs, their Dæmons closely following, and Shy circles down to join them. Rodney’s chewing on a powerbar, trying to discuss some theorem of astrophysics with Ronon despite the Satedan rarely saying anything - Dex doesn’t seem angry, though, or overly annoyed, just a bit, and bemused; still getting used to Rodney, to the team, to Atlantis. Ford and Adria are chatting happily and there is something so familiar, so good about this that John can’t quite put words to. Definitions might not matter, anyway, he thinks briefly as his team approaches, gathers around him, each movement so secure and routine and this, this, he thinks, this is home.

Human or not.

The kawoosh of white light swirls outward from the puddle before it settles, and the wormhole is brilliantly blue waiting for them. Chuck clears them from overhead, and Elizabeth tells them good luck and they promise to bring back some nice souvenirs; a  _potentia_  if they can find it.

Then they turn, as one, and step toward the event horizon.


End file.
